


this year's love

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, timecanaryweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-05 09:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11575524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: And she does know. Knows that he would be the last person to throw pity in her direction. Because, somehow,she knows him.He turns to look at her then, and for someone who weeks ago had been so careful to avoid her gaze,anyone’sgaze, had been resolute in avoiding human interaction of any sort, it throws her off-kilter to have him looking at her now in the way that he is.In a way that saysI know you too.





	1. fall

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is a pretty long fic for me. It somehow turned into 25k words, which has been split into five parts (4 + epilogue), and I’ve decided to post them over the course of the week, since I didn’t quite manage to write something for every day, but I hope this makes up for that. I had so much fun writing this, but then it’s been sitting in my fic folder for so long, that I ended up reading over and editing it too many times, and now it all reads like mush, but I think _once_ I was proud of it, so who knows now. Also, I made edits. I am a novice, and I’m sure it shows.
> 
> Anyway, this was a labour of love. I hope you enjoy it, and please leave a comment if you do? It would mean the world :-)

 

                                           

 

“So, what do you think?”

Amaya looks back at her, a mixture of hope and excitement in her smile, an eagerness that’s unexpected. For someone who usually plays it so enviably cool, calm and collected, it’s surprising to see her be unashamedly open about just how much she wants this.

_So, really? How_ can _she say_ no _?_

“Why the hell not?” she shrugs with a grin.

Besides, Sara thinks, what more does she need? Reasonable rent, excellent location – literally only a fifteen-minute bike ride to work, and close enough to the city to be convenient, but far enough away from the suffocating hustle and bustle – a decent sized bedroom, a bathroom that doesn’t want to make her gag on sight, and a chill housemate who she gets along with great. A little distractingly beautiful maybe, but she’s spoken for, and so she’s not in any real danger.

It’s a no-brainer.

“Yes!” Amaya hugs her then, and her excitement is infectious as she pulls back and grabs hold of her shoulders. “You will not regret this!”

She moves away towards the fridge, fishing out two beer bottles, handing her one as she nudges it back shut with her hip.

Sara takes the proffered drink, still grinning wide.

“Oh,” Amaya says then, as if it isn’t anything at all, “I should probably mention Rip.”

Her brow furrows in confusion. Rip? Rip what?

Amaya laughs, “No, more like, Rip who?”

She hadn’t even realised she’d spoken the question out loud.

“Rip Hunter,” she continues, “he also lives here. My other, well _our_ other housemate.”

At Sara’s expression, she hastens to reassure her. “Look, don’t worry about it. He’s usually never here, stays in his own room most of the time, plus he’s good for rent, and Nate knows him well. Well, he knows him through Ray and Jax, who can vouch for him, but yeah. You won’t even know that he’s here. _It’ll be fine!_ ”

In hindsight, Sara thinks she should have known better than to believe that.

 

:::::

 

It’s ten days later when she finally meets her elusive roommate.

She comes home from one of her evening classes famished and tired, stumbling into the kitchen in search of leftover pizza when she’s greeted by a loud, and not entirely welcoming, “ _who are you_?”

Sara starts at the voice, the crisp English accent catching her off-guard, but it’s really the frying pan held out in her direction, brandished like some sort of pathetic weapon that stops her short.

Clearly, Amaya hasn’t told him anything about her. Like, you know, the simple fact she actually lives here now? Never mind the fact she’s a board-certified martial artist and self-defence instructor who could swipe that pan out of his grasp in less than two seconds flat, and then have him unconscious on the kitchen floor before he can even blink.

She contemplates giving him a demonstration, but then gets a proper look at him. There’s nothing threatening about the man at all. He’s reasonably tall, not so much slim but skinny, as if he’s been starving himself, paler than her which she didn’t even think was possible, and then there’s the dark circles around his eyes and the unkempt hair. It only helps to stir the dredges of unease in the pit of her stomach. There’s a wariness in his expression, and something tells her, it’s one he wears more often than not.

She opts not to think about it too hard, steps past him instead, eyeing the pan with an amused smirk on her lips before drawing her eyes up to his startled ones.

“Sara Lance,” she answers.

He narrows his eyes. “Who?”

She swipes his freshly brewed cup of coffee from the breakfast counter and he doesn’t even blink.

“Sara Lance,” she says again, “your new roommate.”

“My new _what_?”

She takes a sip of his drink, watching as his eyes flicker down to the cup. Irritation warring with the confusion and alarm.

“Ugh!” she grimaces, dropping the cup back down on the faux marble top. “What the hell is that?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Tea.”

“So, not coffee then?”

“No,” he answers back flatly.

She pushes the offending beverage back in his direction, “I’m starving. Amaya said she left me some pizza?”

He doesn’t move from his spot, though he does deem it safe to finally lower his frying pan. “Try the fridge.”

She ignores the pointed tone, walks over to the refrigerator, sticks her head in, and finds what she’s looking for with a happy, grateful sigh. She pops a slice in her mouth and makes her way over to the living area, before settling down on the couch with her feet up on the table and pizza box in lap. She can sense his eyes on her. Or rather on the pair of muddy sneakers propped up on yesterday’s coffee-stained newspaper.

Oh, she thinks, so he’s one of _those_. She’ll have to remember to wash the dishes and not leave her underwear lying around. Normally, she wouldn’t bother, but on this occasion, she makes the effort and drops her feet down before glancing back in his direction.

His expression remains unreadable.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to ask, but she does it anyway;

“Was there anything you wanted to watch? I’m in the mood for an action movie. Your pick?”

If he appears surprised by the offer, she only gets a fleeting glimpse of it, before he’s shaking his head once, and declining with a “no, no thank you.”

He says nothing more. Picks up his cup of tea and disappears out onto the hallway. She hears the tell-tale creak of the stairs and she’s left with the silence of an empty room.

“Nice to meet you too, Roomie,” she says to no one.

 

:::::

 

It goes on like that for some time.

Random two second glimpses every few days, curt nods the only acknowledgement of her cheery “good mornings” and if she’s lucky, a sullen “hello” thrown back in her direction here and there.

She learns nothing more about Rip Hunter. Nothing more than what she’d managed to glean from her own observations.

There’s the obvious – he’s British, drinks nothing but tea (naturally), hasn’t got a clue how to smile, which seems apt given his perpetual bad mood, and pretty much lives like a ghost. Silent and hardly there, appearing and disappearing in split seconds.

And then there’s the mystery she’s only half solved. The glint of a golden wedding band on his ring finger but no sign of a wife.

She can put two and two together, and the sum of it equals a heavy, leaden weight in her stomach. But still, she asks, because she needs to know–

“What happened to his wife?”

Amaya looks up from her laptop, a startled expression on her face at the question.

Sara sits up straighter, watches her from the couch, cushion in her lap, as Amaya sighs heavily before closing her laptop and spinning sideways on her chair. She rests an elbow on the edge of the dining table, her other hand fiddling with her necklace – the one she’s never without, a family heirloom if she remembers right. It’s a nervous tic of hers, a sure sign of her discomfort as she uses it to draw strength to face whatever it is that terrifies her.

“She died,” she answers her after a moment.

“No shit Sherlock,” Sara retorts, which yes, not really an appropriate response, but she knows that, figured that much out for herself, because what she wants to know is, “how? How did she die?”

Amaya shifts uncomfortably in her seat, “I don’t really know all the details . . .”

And yet, Sara thinks, she knows enough.

“Amaya?”

“She was killed.”

“By what?”

And from the expression on her friend’s face, she realises that that was the wrong question.

A cold chill runs down her spine, because the question really should have been, _by who?_

And by the time Amaya finishes telling her the rest of the story, she wishes she’d never asked.

 

::::::

 

The last vestiges of summer are truly gone now. The leaves are starting to turn and fall to the ground, still crunchy under her feet, and not yet sludge in the rain. Sara pulls a little tighter on her leather jacket in the cool breeze, and turns the corner of the street.

The sound of live music filters out from the open doors of the bar, and the constant hum of noise, chatter and laughter, clinking bottles and glasses greets her as she steps into their usual downtown haunt.

She spots them easy enough: in the far corner, already halfway through their first round of drinks. Amaya sits curled up beside her boyfriend, Nate. And his best friend, the always affable and beaming, technological genius, Ray Palmer, sits on the opposite side, engrossed in a conversation with Jax. The latter being the youngest of the group with a remarkable mind for machines and their engines. They were an interesting, unlikely group of friends, but somehow, _they worked._

There’s a chorus of “hey!” and “Sara!” as she steps into view, weaving her way through the busy crowd.

Jax stands up to give her a hug, allowing her to slip into place between him and Ray. She kisses Ray on the cheek and he predictably, as always, blushes. It’s super endearing. Only because she knows she’s safe from being the object of a crush: he has his eyes firmly on the pretty barista that works in the coffee shop across the street from Palmer Tech. Not that he’s actually ever spoken to her yet. But it’s a work in progress.

Across from her, Nate reaches forward with a fist and she responds in kind, bumping his with her own. Amaya just rolls her eyes at the juvenile greeting, and at the same time does a poor job of hiding her smile.

“So, Sara,” Jax starts, “busy day teaching more people how to commit murder?”

“Yep. Only ever for the good of humanity though, so don’t worry,” she answers with a wink and a pat on his leg. “But I’m gonna need a drink if we’re gonna talk work.”

“And that’s my cue,” Nate says, standing up, clearly his turn for rounds. “The usual?”

There’s a murmur of agreement that ripples around the booth and he nods once and disappears into the crowd.

“I thought you love work?” Amaya asks.

“I do,” Sara says, leaning back in her seat, “but it’s been a long day, and I’d rather talk about _anything_ else.”

Ray lets out a sad sigh beside her, which has her looking up in his direction. “Oh wow. We can talk about it if you really want to Ray? I never knew self-defence was such a passion of yours . . . _Ray_?”

“Huh?” he says, eyes jerking up from his phone, “Oh, what? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

Sara frowns, the teasing lilt of her voice morphing into concern just like that. “You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Ray sighs, putting his phone down on the table. “It’s just . . . _Rip_. He’s not coming.”

It takes a moment to register, the confusion clear on her face, “Rip? You invited him?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal, “I thought since you and Amaya have moved in with the guy now, it would be cool to invite him to join us. He’s a good guy, he could do with getting out and having some fun.”

Jax takes a sip of his beer, “you didn’t really think he would come, did you?”

From Ray’s expression, Sara thinks that yes, _yes he did_. And given his eternal optimism, it’s not all that surprising.

Nate returns with the drinks then, takes a look at the expressions around the table and asks, “who died?”

Jax nearly chokes on his drink, and Sara slaps him on the back once, twice for good measure as he splutters.

“We were just talking about the fact that Rip’s not coming,” Amaya answers him.

He looks towards Ray, because who else would have invited him? “You didn’t expect the guy to actually turn up, did you Ray?”

Same question, different person.

“Why would that be such a shock?” Ray grumbles at the familiar words, before conceding at their pointed silence, “yeah, no I know _why_ , I was just hoping he’d be getting better by now. It’s been over two years, after all.”

“I’m not sure you ever get over something like that,” Sara says then, the words tumbling out of her mouth without thought. She realises it a second later, and switches the focus back away from her before the gang go reading too much into it. “How do you even know him?”

Ray then sets about recounting his story of how Captain Rip Hunter had led his precinct’s investigation into the spate of armed robberies that had happened two years ago, and how one of those targets had been Palmer Tech. Sara vaguely recollects the story; she’d spent the better part of that year back home in Star City, trying to help her parents get back on their feet. Get herself back on her feet. She’d never really heard the whole thing, vivid, gory details and all.

And so she listens, and as Ray enthusiastically tells them all of how the man had heroically caught the guy as he’d been trying to escape, and as Jax then chimes in to tell his own story of how they met – another tale laced with heroism and kindness – Sara learns one thing and is reminded of another.

The first being: Rip Hunter is a good man.

The other being: shitty things seem to always happen to good people.

And if there’s one universal law she’s tired of.

It’s that one.

 

:::::

 

She doesn’t know what prompts her to try.

Well, she does _know_ , she just doesn’t want to admit to it.

Because it isn’t pity. Never that.

She’d never want to be on the receiving end and wouldn’t do someone the disservice of acting on it herself.

And it isn’t that she feels _sorry_ for him. No. What she feels is empathy. Because she knows what it is to lose someone you love. Unexpectedly. Unfairly. And long before their time.

That downward spiral of despair and depression? She knows it well. Knows it’s a long way down, and a long hard struggle of a battle to pull yourself back out. But she’d done it. Not alone. No. But she’d come out the other side and what good is her experience, if she can’t use it to help someone else?

And so she tries. It’s only a small effort in the grand scheme of things, and she doesn’t even know if he notices.

That is until he catches her red-handed one week after she starts the whole sorry, stupid thing.

“I should have guessed it was you.”

She startles at the voice, which is surprising in itself, as most people generally have a hard time creeping up on her. She’s usually the one known for her stealthy approaches and sneak attacks.

The milk she’s pouring splashes over the rim of the cup and onto the kitchen counter, leaking down the sides and over the front of the cupboards below. A large drop of milk lands with a plop in the mug, turning his Earl Grey a faint brown – more milk than tea.

She turns to her side, watches as he comes to a stop beside her, his face grimacing at the sight and she feels her own feathers ruffle in irritation at his judgement.

“I appreciate the thought,” he continues, already having spoken more words this morning than he had in the past week, “but I’d appreciate it even more if you’d refrain from leaving cups of whatever monstrosity _that_ is, in front of my bedroom door every morning.”

Her cheeks colour with anger, not embarrassment, she tells herself, and barely manages to rein herself in as she spits out her next words.

“It’s _tea_!”

She grabs hold of a kitchen towel and starts wiping down the surface.

“That is _not_ tea. That is milk, water and a whole jar of sugar.”

The expression on her face must give her away despite her best efforts, because he sighs then, deep and heavy, voice turning soft in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Here,” he says, “let me show you.”

She watches him retrieve another mug from the cupboard overhead, the hem of his grey t-shirt inching up slightly as he reaches for it, a fleeting glimpse of pale skin and a flat stomach barely registering before he’s rocking back onto the balls of his socked feet.

He drops a teabag into the clean cup, following it up with a decent volume of water from the still boiling kettle.

“The trick,” he explains as he opens a drawer to grab hold of a teaspoon, “is patience. Let the tea infuse for a few minutes, otherwise it just ends up being weak and frankly tastes disgusting.”

This is more interaction than they’ve had since she moved in, and Sara finds her anger dissipating, and being able to do nothing but watch the man beside her with a fascination she can’t even begin to explain.

“And then you add just a drop of milk. See?”

She nods, but her eyes are on his profile, and he’s too intent on showing her how to make a proper cup of tea to even notice her scrutiny. Not until he turns to her and says, “and no sugar. I don’t take any sugar. Tea is not meant to be sickly sweet.”

She snorts. “And why does that not surprise me?”

He looks affronted. “Do you mean to say I’m a bitter soul, Miss Lance?”

For a split second of a moment she regrets her choice of words, knowing it toes the line of insensitivity, especially towards a man who’s been through the hell that he has, but then she sees it. The slight twitch of his lips. Had she not been so accustomed to his frown, she wouldn’t have even noticed it.

It’s progress, is what it is.

And so not one to hinder progress, Sara retorts, “well, if the _tea_ fits . . .”

The noise that leaves his lips surprises her. She thinks the breath of air that he blows through his nose must be some version of a laugh. But whatever it is, she’ll take it. It’s a fleeting moment between two strangers, but then he’s looking down at her, holding her gaze with his own – his eyes are green, she’d never realised that before – and the moment feels inexplicably intimate. “You know, don’t you?” he simply asks, though the heavy sigh that accompanies the words make it less of a question.

She nods. The words soft from her lips. “I’m sorry.”

The _for your loss_ remains unspoken but hovers in the air between them.

He shakes his head and looks away. “I don’t do well with pity.”

She doesn’t so much as blink. “Neither do I.”

His face searches hers. Looking for what she doesn’t know, but it’s with a certain intensity that has her holding her breath, hoping he finds whatever it is.

And apparently, he does.

“Well in that case, Miss Lance. I appreciate your act of kindness, but I think from now on the _infinitely kinder_ course of action would be leaving me to the task of making the cups of tea around here.”

She laughs. “Done. The job’s all yours. Plus, you’re the only one who drinks that shit anyway.”

His horrified “ _excuse me_?” only makes her grin wider.

 

:::::

 

Things become decidedly less awkward between them all after that. Rip’s still not the most talkative, has yet to figure out which muscles of his face to use to smile, but he does linger outside of his room more often, even goes as far as venturing into the living area and actually joining the girls from time to time. Most mornings Sara finds him sitting there in the kitchen, reading his newspaper at the breakfast counter while she rushes around late for work. The judgement literally pours off of him, though when she finally calls him on it, he denies it.

(“This isn’t judgement, Sara. It’s concern,” he says, one of the few times he actually uses her name, and not the overly formal, _Miss Lance,_ he seems so fond of. She thinks it’s a cop thing.

His retort genuinely stops her short. The frown freezing in place. “Concern? For what?”

“The future of your employment,” he says.

“Well, lucky for me, I’m my own boss.”

“Lucky, indeed,” he mutters into the rim of his mug.)

In any case, she thinks things have improved enough that by the time Halloween rolls around, she sees no harm in throwing a party.

She loves Halloween. Carving pumpkins, trick or treating, the costumes . . .  She loves it all, and her enthusiasm is infectious, everyone succumbing to it eventually.

Except Rip Hunter, of course.

The man is stubbornly immune.

Until she gives him no choice in the matter.

“What on God’s green Earth . . ?” he says, the disdain written all over his face as he walks into the kitchen, his voice trailing off as he takes in the decorations strewn all over the living room and dining area. He swipes at some of the fake spider-webs hanging from the ceiling and holds it up in front of him as if to punctuate his question.

Sara doesn’t even look down. She’s standing on the coffee table, trying in vain to reach up and hang the lantern in her hands.

“We’re having a party,” she says to the ceiling.

“I figured as much,” he breathes out, not that she hears him in her distraction. She doesn’t even hear him drag over a stool from the breakfast counter, or hear him clamber up on top of it. It’s only as his hand brushes hers as he takes the lantern from her grasp, the words, “I can’t watch you do this. Here, let me,” falling from his lips, a quiet breath in her ear, that she finally notices him. Standing there. Next to her. So, close they’re touching, which normally wouldn’t faze her, but it’s the fact she’d begun to think he was allergic to human touch. If she so much as brushed past him in the kitchen, she swears he’d flinch away as if being burnt. But he’s so intent on trying to get these decorations up for her, he doesn’t even realise, and she’s not going to be the one to point it out.

It’s progress, she tells herself once more.

And she’s not sure why that’s so important to her. They’re hardly friends, just two people living in the same place, paying the same rent, to a landlord only one of them has met, but it _just is_.

“Where are the rest?” he asks.

She spins on the spot, points to the mountain of decorations hidden away in the corner. He clearly missed it on his way in, distracted as he had been by _everything else_.

She watches as his brows hike their way up his forehead in shock at the sight, before he clears his throat, and nods bravely. “Right. Where do you want them?”

She grins wide.

His lips don’t even twitch.

They work like that for some time. Sara directing, Rip following her orders. Amaya returns an hour later, Nate following behind her, arms laden with boxes of snacks and sweets, and of course, several six packs of beer that no party would be without.

Amaya looks back and forth between her and Rip, finally resting her gaze on her with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. She hears the unspoken loud and clear, shrugs back, mouthing a silent ‘ _I know_.’ Rip remains oblivious to the exchange.

“You know,” Sara says to him, once the last pumpkin is settled into place, and Nate and Amaya are back outside grabbing the rest of the supplies, “don’t think that this gets you out of joining in tonight.”

“Oh bollocks,” he sighs taking a step back to frown at their hard work, mock distaste painted on his face, “and here I thought the free labour would earn me a well-earned pass . . .”

His eyes dance with the words making it clear he never believed that for a single second.

“Ha!” she says, coming to stand beside him, bumping his shoulder as she does. “Nice try.”

He doesn’t flinch this time either.

 

:::::

 

The party is in full swing by the time Sara gets to enjoy the fruits of her labour.

Pulling herself up onto the kitchen counter top, legs swinging away beneath her as she takes a swig of her drink, she gets to take an appreciative three-sixty glance around the room. The floor is packed. Friends of friends, a few clients, neighbours (well, one neighbour, the one that Amaya is adamant doesn’t have a crush on her, but if that creepy laser focus is anything to go by, she’s in for a surprise), and a whole lot of random people she doesn’t recognise. But hey, she’s crashed enough parties through the years to give some freeloaders a pass. Pay it forward, and all that jazz.

Nate and Amaya are practically sitting on top of each other in one of the armchairs in the far corner of the room; the latter looking half way tipsy, which is a rather rare and surprising sight. But she has Nate, or rather, _Indiana Jones_ , there to look after her if need be, so she’s not too worried.

She’s not sure what it is about this year’s costumes, but everyone seems to have latched onto the fancy dress part of it, ignoring the Halloween spirit altogether. She can count the number of witches and ghouls on one hand, the overwhelming majority opting to come dressed as some clichéd TV or movie character or another. Of course, Ray came dressed as Han Solo, as did Jax, and that somehow _wasn’t_ so surprising. Although that may have something to do with the fact that each of them had (very excitedly) told her about their plans for their costumes (separately) the week before, and she had kept it all to herself (completely on purpose) because, _well_ , because it was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

Unfortunately, Ray being his unflappable self, pouted for a whole two minutes before declaring Jax the better Han Solo and gracefully relinquishing his title. It was all rather disappointingly anticlimactic.

And speaking of Han Solo. Jax spots her, throws her a little wave as he comes closer. “Hey Sara!” He slurs her name, well on his way to crossing into the no-return territory of drunkenness. Although, it’s worth noting, that he’s a very happy, excitable drunk, and its actually kind of cute.

“Did you see my girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend? You work fast!”

“Yeah I do!” he grins, holding up a hand to high-five.

Sara shakes her head with a laugh, but dutifully slaps her palm against his outstretched one. “She’s cute.”

Jax, honest to God, _sighs_ , and damn if she won’t torture him with it later.

“Yeah,” he says, the literal definition of heart-eyes. “She’s so pretty, and she makes an awesome Leia to my Han Solo, don’t ya think?”

She snorts, laughter turning into coughs as her beer comes out of her nostrils. Because she’s pretty sure the girl’s dressed as Wonder Woman but it’s the sentiment that counts, so she says nothing. Not that it matters, Jax is off again, leaving her alone with a fond smile on her face, searching the crowd once more.

It takes her a little too long to realise just who it is she’s looking for. Despite making him promise to show up, she hasn’t spotted Rip once. She has no idea if he’s here, if he’s barricaded himself in his room, or if he’s (more likely) done a runner.

The easy smile dissolves into a worried frown. Hopping off her perch, she starts to make her way through the throng of people, past Lord Voldemort making out with the Blue Power Ranger to slip out into the hallway. There’s a light breeze coming in through the open front door, despite the number of people filtering in and out.

“He’s outside.”

She looks up at the owner of the voice, and finds Ray smiling down at her with a knowing expression that doesn’t sit so comfortably in her gut, but she tries not to read too much into. She shrugs a quick “thanks” as nonchalantly as she can instead, and heads for the front lawn.

The party has spilled outside but it’s not so intensely packed out here. There’s a movement of air that makes it easier to breathe, cooler too in the night breeze. The odd burst of laughter amongst the chatter blends with the steady beat and thrum of bass as the music escapes through the open windows.

She almost doesn’t see him.

But it’s the sing-song sound of “trick or treat!” and children’s laughter that draws her attention. And somehow, despite it all, it makes sense that this is where she’d find him.

He’s crouching down beside the kids, handing out the goodie bags chock full of sweets to rot their teeth, and it’s not that which freezes her in place mid-stride. Nor is it his tweed jacket and bow tie – and yes, it may have been a little low effort for a costume, but it’s more than she could have hoped for, and she’s not one to talk either (blood-stained nurse’s outfit isn’t exactly pushing any boundaries) – no, what it is, is the smile on his face. Kind and patient, and a glimpse of what he’d been. A father.

The kids wave their goodbyes, and Rip’s smile falls as they turn away, disappearing down the sidewalk. A deep breath in and out follows, as if that small upturn of his lips, the minuscule attempt at joviality and light-heartedness, had been enough to exhaust him.

And all of a sudden, Sara feels guilty.

A tidal wave hitting her as she pushes down the lump in her throat. Too much, too soon. She’d forced too much, too soon.

Of course, he turns towards her then. Spots her instantly, eyes widening at being caught. The blush on his cheeks, a dark stain, matching the colour of his bow tie.

His eyes sweep down her costume, and for the first time tonight she feels hyper-aware of the length of her dress and the extra button she purposely missed and left undone.

“Nurse Lance.”

She responds in kind, “Doctor.”

The surprise is evident on his face.

“What?” she shrugs, as she steps up beside him, pushing herself up onto the crumbling brick wall, bare thigh brushing against his jeans. “My mom loves Doctor Who. Has a not so secret crush on Eleven. You’d better be careful.”

“She’s not here, is she?” His mock nervous glance over his shoulder puts a small smile on her face.

She shakes her head, “Nah, don’t worry you’re safe for tonight. She and dad are not one’s for parties. Not anymore,” she adds quietly, her voice trailing off as she stares down their street and the houses across the road. The ones that try shamelessly to pretend they’re not home, turning out all their lights, slotted in between the others that have made half-hearted attempts to get into the spirit.

This time Sara feels his gaze on her face. Quiet, thoughtful, and it’s a rather disconcerting feeling having someone try so hard to read you.

It’s only with his next words, she realises it hadn’t been so hard for him, after all.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, “Dr Palmer told me about your sister.”

She purses her lips, and nods, eyes falling to her hands in her lap and the chipped nail paint before she lifts her head back up and breathes out into the night sky.

“No pity, remember?”

He shakes his head, “Sara, it’s not-”

She cuts him off, “I know.”

And she does know. Knows that he would be the last person to throw pity in her direction. Because, somehow, _she knows him_.

He turns to look at her then, and for someone who weeks ago had been so careful to avoid her gaze, _anyone’s_ gaze, had been resolute in avoiding human interaction of any sort, it throws her off-kilter to have him looking at her now in the way that he is.

In a way that says _I know you too._

Because he does.

It’s inexplicable but tangible.

Both moulded from the same ashes.

Kindred spirits.

“And look,” she says, “I’m sorry that I forced you to come tonight. I should have realised that you weren’t ready, and I-”

This time, he stops her; a hand reaching out, hovering with indecision before he breathes out and gently places it over hers.

“No,” he says then, voice barely above a whisper, “if anything, I should thank you, Miss Lance. I think I needed this.

“This,” he gestures around them, not letting go of her hand, “is good for me.”

She nods, bites down on her smile and looks away.

Because, _this_ , she thinks, _is good for her too_.

 

 

TBC

 


	2. winter

 

                                            

  

 

It all comes full circle.

Rip had never been a fan of this time of the year. Too wet. Too cold. And the days much too short; darkness creeping in and stealing away all of the light. People’s misery always seemed so much starker, that much more real. The loneliness, the hunger, the hardships of the poor, the homeless. Any hopes for that being any different on this side of the pond were quickly quashed the first year he got here and started working at the local precinct downtown. The crooks and crims seemed to rejoice at the holiday season, getting into the ‘ho ho ho’ spirit, whichever side of the Atlantic he was on. Crime seemed to be drawn like magnets to the weak and the downtrodden.

But then Jonas had come along.

It had been a remarkably bright and sunny Monday morning, defying all odds and expectations, kicking and screaming into the world, and for once in his life, Rip could see beauty in the darkness.

Of course, Jonas loved December. It was by far his favourite month of the year, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

Double the presents, fun and laughter.

Double the love.

And he’d been well loved.

_So very loved_.

A whole month of joy and warmth.

Of course, it’s devoid of all of that now.

Which brings him back to here.

Full circle.

Hating this time of the year, and certain nothing will ever change his mind again.

 

:::::

 

“What do you mean you hate snow?”

The spoon drops from her fingers into the cereal bowl with a clang, cold milk spitting up everywhere on the breakfast counter, a wayward drop landing on the back of his hand.

Rip doesn’t look up from his newspaper, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, an irritating reminder that he’s overdue new contact lenses.

“I mean, Miss Lance,” he says once more, “ _I hate snow_.”

“But _why_?” The horror on her face clearly illustrates how alien a concept this is to her.

“Because it is cold. It is wet. Dreadfully inconvenient and extremely hazardous!”

“Jeez Rip,” she says, and he can tell she’s rolling her eyes at him – it seems to be a very natural and instinctive response to anything he says – as she turns her back on him to drop her unfinished breakfast bowl in the kitchen sink. Which she knows he hates. Soggy cereal blocking up the sink, and he’s the one who ends up having to unclog the drain. His admonishing “Sara!” is met with the rest of her sentence; “you are such an old man!”

“And so what if I am?”

He’s not, really. Five years older than her at thirty-five, but he definitely feels a lot older than that. It’s a weariness that’s settled deep into his bones, and most days than not, he still thinks he’s lived enough that it’d be no shame to slip away in his sleep. It’d be better than this, he thinks. _Better than this._

She makes a point of ignoring his censure as he glares at the kitchen sink and instead blocks his view by leaning up against it, arms folding across her chest.

“You _can’t_ hate snow. It’s impossible. I’ve never met anyone who hates snow.”

His “well you have now!” is ignored in favour of pinning Miss Jiwe to the spot as she enters the room, her eyes searching for her house keys.

“Amaya!” Sara calls across to her. “Snow? Love it or hate it?”

She’s too distracted to look confused by the question, answers with a quick “love it,” followed by a “have you seen my . . .”

Rip reaches across the counter, grabs hold of her keys and throws them in her direction. “Here.”

She catches them deftly in one hand. “Thanks.”

“See?” Sara smirks.

Rip folds his newspaper back, “I hardly think Miss Jiwe’s opinion is representative of seven billion people!”

Had he known she would take it as such a personal affront and a challenge he would have gladly lied, but as it was, he hadn’t really had the foresight to do such a thing, and so he’s left with the scary, determined glint in her eyes and her ominous words.

“First snowfall this year, Captain Hunter, and you’re gonna be singing a different tune. Mark my words . . .”

“We shall see Miss Lance. We shall see.”

 

:::::

 

They don’t have to wait too long.

A week later, Rip is rudely awoken by a sudden pouring of bright morning light and the sing-song voice of one Miss Sara Lance as she bounds over to him. “Rise and shine! It’s snowing! Prepare to fall in love with Nature’s Miracle!”

Rip squeezes his eyes shut and slips further under his duvet in defence, but Sara’s not taking any prisoners this morning and yanks it away, exposing him and his t-shirt and stripy cotton pyjama bottoms to a blast of cold, wintry air and Sara’s critical and amused gaze.

“Cute PJs,” she says, the hint of laughter in her tone doing wonders for his self-esteem. He dares not blink his eyes open, not until he’s sure she’s left the room. His cheeks are turning pink, and he thinks it’s far too early in the morning to be blushing, but as always, Sara gives him no choice in the matter.

“Hurry up!” she calls from the stairs, forcing him to get up with a groan.

When he finally does get himself up and ready, carefully bundled up in his winter coat, hat and scarf, he’s met with the sight of the street covered in six inches of snow and the whole neighbourhood out in force.

There are half-built, misshapen snowmen everywhere, and snowballs flying in every direction.

One lands square on Sara’s back, carefully timed, just as he steps outside.

Not that it bothers her. No. She just grins, scoops together her own ammunition and turns on the snowball-wielding culprit across the street. The young girl, probably not more than eight or nine, shrieks with laughter and barely manages to get out of the way of Sara’s missile.

“I’m pretty sure attacking poor innocent minors is a federal crime.”

Sara packs together another snowball, and Rip starts to get a faint idea of where she’ll be aiming this one next. “Not if it’s in self-defence,” she smirks.

He’s not sure who throws the first one, but he’ll adamantly deny starting it later.

Sara Lance, he realises, is vicious and frighteningly stealthy. He supposes it’s all her martial arts training coming into play on instinct. What she doesn’t account for, though, is the fact that he’s actually a pretty decent shot himself. If he were the boastful sort, he’d go as far as saying he has perfect aim with any form of ballistic – be it metal bullets or bullets made of ice.

In any case, time flies, with Jax and Ray turning up an hour later, and joining in with unsurprising enthusiasm. Sara and Ray declare themselves the winners, not that he knows how she’s figured that one out. Not when they’re all soaked to the bone, fingers and toes numb and dead, teeth chattering, muscle fibres quivering.

They ditch their soaked clothes once inside and huddle under blankets in the living room, cups of tea and coffee clutched in blue hands. There are smiles on everyone’s faces, and yes, he thinks, there must be one on his too because the smile on Sara’s face softens at the sight of him, and he doesn’t feel nearly so cold. He’s sitting squashed in the middle of both Jax and Ray, almost disappearing from view, as Sara sits curled up in the armchair opposite.

She holds his gaze, blue eyes twinkling. “Still hate the snow?” she asks.

“Yes,” he lies.

 

::::::

 

“Oh God, I’m dying!”

It’s an over exaggeration, of course. And here Rip thought he was the king of theatrics when ill. At least his wife, Miranda, used to tell him as much.

But it would appear that he’s been dethroned.

Red-nosed, red-eyed, breathing heavily through her mouth, cheeks flushed and burning skin, shivering like a leaf and clutching her blankets around her like a lifeline, the indestructible Sara Lance, has been struck down by flu, and it makes for quite a picture.

“Still love the snow?” Rip asks, because he can’t quite help himself.

“Yes,” she bites out through gritted teeth.

A huff of air leaves his lips in laughter. She’s too miserable to notice, and it’s not until much later that he realises that that may have been the first time he’s laughed so effortlessly in two years. As it is, he doesn’t notice then, and neither does she.

Instead, she narrows her eyes, a look of murder on her face as she spits out a disgruntled, “shut up!”

He chuckles a little louder this time, and for his efforts is rewarded with a petulant, “I hate you.”

Still, it doesn’t offend him in the slightest. He’s had practice at looking after a sick child, and this is no different. He’s also pretty handy in the kitchen and as Sara lies bundled up in blankets, lying on the sofa, watching old re-runs of the _Great British Bake-Off_ , he sets about making her his special chicken soup, guaranteed to settle any queasy stomach and cure all ills.

“You know,” she says through a heavily blocked nose, “I never really got this show to start with, but it’s actually really . . . _nice._ ”

“Nice?”

“It’s supposed to be a competition, where everyone’s ‘rah rah, my signature bake is gonna whoop your ass!’-”

He mouths silently, “rah rah?” But Sara’s not paying any attention, she’s on a roll, “-but everyone’s so nice and helpful? I don’t even know why that makes me so happy, but the contestants are so cute giving each other tips and holding up each other’s pies when they’re falling to pieces, giving each other thumbs ups and high-fives, and then they have the freakin’ Queen as one of the judges-”

“The Queen?”

“Yeah,” she nods, hand outstretched toward the screen, where Mary Berry is tapping a pie crust with a spoon, expertly checking for any soggy bottoms.

“Uh no,” he says, with a tilt of his head, “I’m pretty sure that our present-day monarch is still Elizabeth the Second-”

“Whatever, Mary Berry is _a_ Queen . . . and Paul is a dick.” She adds the last part almost as an afterthought.

He hums in approval. “Now that I agree with.

“Here,” he says, bringing her a bowl of the steaming soup. “Careful, it’s hot.”

She blinks at it, blinks up at him. “You made me soup?”

“Uh . . . yes. What did you think I was doing in the kitchen?”

She gapes at him, and Rip finds himself shifting uncomfortably on the spot. “What?” he asks, “you don’t like chicken soup?”

She shakes her head, “it’s not that.”

“Then what?” he asks, as she bends up her knees, freeing the spot beside her on the couch. He drops the bowl of soup gently onto the coffee table, making sure to place a coaster underneath it, and takes the now empty seat.

“I just,” she starts and stops, eyes bright and he thinks it must be her fever, or the effects of the whole bottle of flu meds she gulped down starting to wear off and the haze of it clearing, but he finds he can’t hold her gaze any longer, and turns his attention to the TV screen. Not that it helps though. He can still feel her eyes on his profile, trying to pick him apart.

She clears her throat, lets a tinge of indifference seep into her words, “I never realised you could cook. Next thing you’re gonna tell me, you can bake a genoose cake-”

“Genoise.”

“Genoise, Victoria, Roulades, Crème Brûlée, whatever-”

He shrugs, dismissive, as if it’s nothing. “I can do all of those.”

There’s a beat, before she’s snorting and shaking her head. “No you can’t!”

She pushes herself back down on the couch, legs stretching out, landing in his lap as she turns to face the screen again. “No, you can’t bake as well!”

And it’s the way she says it. In disgust, rather than disbelief. Almost as if he shouldn’t be _allowed_ to be able to do such a thing. And it’s ludicrous.

“Well, I can,” he says. “Maybe I’ll teach you one day, Miss Lance.” He doesn’t know what possesses him to offer, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Really?” She’s looking back at him again, but he keeps his eyes resolute on the screen, where yet another contestant is engaging in another anxious oven-watch.

“Really.”

“Okay, I guess I could teach you how to ride my motorbike in return . . .”

This time he can’t help but look at her, eyes wide in horror and, of course, she’s lying there, smirking at him.

“Ha! Very amusing. I think I’ll forego that metal death trap of yours, but thank you for the kind offer.” He pats her leg, and he has every intention of removing his hand, but then he just _doesn’t_. He leaves his hand there, fingers wrapping around her calf, and Sara just settles herself down more comfortably against her cushions and doesn’t see fit to comment on it.

Instead, she’s too distracted by the thought of him on her motorbike, obviously scheming all the possible ways to make it happen if that look in her eyes is anything to go by.

“Oh, I’ll get you on there, Captain,” she grins.

Yes, he thinks with a distinct sense of foreboding, he rather suspects she will.

_Oh hell._

 

::::::

 

He knows they all know what day it is.

It’s hard not to. Not with all the hushed whispering that’s going on outside his bedroom door that isn’t really whispering at all. Not one of them, apparently, knows how to whisper, and subtlety he’s quickly realised is not something that has yet graced their repertoire of social skills.

The concern is touching, though. It’s also a little suffocating and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The first year he’d spent in a drunken stupor, cleaning out his entire supply of whisky and several more bottles from the convenience store down the road, just to be extra certain he’d be dead to the world. When he’d woken up to find he hadn’t choked on his own vomit, he’d been sorely disappointed.

The second year, he’d spent it locked up in his bedroom, ignoring telephone calls from his mother who had somehow learnt of his exploits the year before, as well as deleting the string of well-meaning voice messages from his ex-colleagues that all said the same thing: “we’re thinking of you” and “hang in there, man.” Nice sentiment, but redundant, empty platitudes all the same, all reminding him of the same thing he’s trying so hard to forget.

_He would have been ten today._

And God, he misses them both so much.

But it’s not just the heartache of not having them here. It’s the guilt. Muddying the feelings and making him feel as if he doesn’t even deserve to miss them. To mourn them.

“We can’t just leave him here!” It seems Sara had given up on all pretences of whispering.

“Trust me,” Ray tries to reason, “he’s better off on his own when he’s like this! I tried, last year, and if he says that he’s fine-”

“I don’t know, man,” Jax interrupts, “maybe we should try again. I agree with Sara.”

“Yeah, but you don’t wanna crowd the guy,” Nate adds his two cents, “some people just need their own space to work through this kinda stuff.”

“So, what do you suggest?” asks Amaya. “We just leave him in there, going through I can’t even imagine what, _alone_? No, I agree with Sara too. He needs to be with friends.”

Friends.

The word hammers against the inside of his skull. A companion to the ice pick that has already lodged itself at the back of his head. The pain a welcome distraction from everything else that aches.

_Friends._

He doesn’t know why he’s so struck by the word.

Maybe because it hadn’t ever been said aloud. He’d never even considered it.

But _friends_. That’s exactly what, and who, they are. They may have forced themselves into his life, ignored all his attempts to push them away. Every unanswered phone call, deleted voice message and text. Every invite to their weekly night-outs. All the holiday get-togethers. Every single one of those rejections, and yet they kept coming back. Again and again.

Ray. Jax. Nate. Even Amaya and Sara, despite his penchant for being a moody, unsociable bastard of a roommate, still managed to get him out of his room, get him to eat to the point where it was no longer a chore, and even managed to get him to smile on a rare occasion.

They are his friends.

And they deserve better than this.

And so, he forces himself up off his bed, trudges over to his bedroom door, and creaks it open to find them all arguing over each other so intently, they don’t even notice him. Not until Ray’s eyes land on him and he shouts out in surprise, “Rip! Sorry, did we . . . uh, did we um wake you?”

He raises a brow, the unspoken ‘really?’ evident on his face.

Nate has the decency to look embarrassed as he scratches at the back of his head. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it Dr Heywood. All of it.”

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, “thought so . . .”

“We’re just worried about you, man.”

“And I appreciate that Mr Jackson. I do. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be the cause of such concern. But I am fine. I assure you.”

“No offence, Rip, but you don’t look it.”

“And no one would expect you to be,” Ray cuts in, throwing Jax a glare. “We know today’s gotta be hard on you.”

“It is,” he concedes with a deep breath in, “but I think spending it in the company of friends may be just what I need.”

Rip swears Ray’s eyes literally water at his words and the sentiment behind them, and he is fast regretting opening his mouth. Especially when the man leaps forwards and crushes him to his chest in an unexpected hug.

He pats him awkwardly on the back, looks over his shoulder to find Nate and Jax struggling to contain their amusement.

“Uh thank you Dr Palmer.”

He steps back, lands a hand on his shoulder and says with utter sincerity, “we’re here for you Rip.”

“Yes. Right. Thank you. So, uh, what’s the plan for today?”

And as he listens to the gang rattle off the itinerary for the day, his gaze somehow finds Sara’s, and the hammering inside his skull fades away to a dull hum.

It’s not altogether too unpleasant.

 

:::::

 

They take him ice-skating.

Because, yes, that’s a wonderful idea. Take the man who hates snow, can’t skate, _ice-skating_.

Although, he has to admit, the outdoor rink is rather beautiful, especially with the remnants of the last snowfall still covering the branches of the trees around the park and the glittering Christmas lights, that have now turned on as the afternoon turns dark, sparkling off the white.

He sits on one of the park benches and observes. Pleas to join in falling on deaf ears, as he tells them he’s content to just watch for the moment.

A moment turns into an hour, watching as Ray and Jax zoom around the edges, Nate and Amaya arm in arm leisurely skating, laughing and smiling. Sara had been with them, skating gracefully along, but then he realises with a start he hasn’t seen her in some time. His eyes flicker around, searching, but is saved from an inexplicable panic (because really, he knows Sara well enough now to know that she can look after herself), by the sudden appearance of a coffee cup in his face.

He looks up to find Sara smiling down at him, her own cup in her other hand, blonde hair framed by the pink woolly hat on her head. Her nose is turning pink, wisps of white cold air blowing in front of her lips as she laughs, “here. Don’t look so suspicious. Try it.”

He takes it from her, as she sits herself down next to him on the wooden bench.

Cautiously, he sips, her expectant face watching the minute changes in his expression.

It’s too late to hide his pleasant surprise, as her smile turns into a smug grin.

“What is it?”

“Ah wouldn’t you like to know? Coffee Hater.”

He shakes his head, mutters, “coffee hater,” under his breath, before sighing and looking up once again at the ice rink.

“Why aren’t you out there?”

“Because you’re not,” she shrugs.

Surprise has him turning back towards her, but she’s not looking at him.

“Sara . . .” her name falls from his lips, an affection lacing through the syllables he has no control over, “I’m fine here. You should go. Have fun.”

She ignores him, asks instead, “did you ever take him ice-skating?”

The ‘him’ squeezes around his heart suddenly and it shudders to a stop. He takes a sharp inhale of breath at the unexpected question. Not one of them had been brave enough to broach the subject, the very reason they were all here in this moment, but of course, Sara would be the one to break down that wall. Who else would it be? And, he realises, he wouldn’t have wanted it to be anyone else.

“No,” he says quietly, “I never had the chance.”

The words sit heavy in the air.

Her gloved hand drops on his. A warm steady presence as she squeezes gently.

“You know, it helps. To talk about it . . .” At his expression, she continues; “just hear me out? Please?”

He nods.

“I don’t necessarily mean _us._ To talk _to us_ about it. Look, Rip, I know what it feels like. To feel like everything, literally everything, is an effort. Getting out of bed. Eating. Talking. Doing anything at all. It’s not something you can slap a band-aid on and hope it all gets better, because it doesn’t. Not like that. I just think you need to see someone, someone professional, about it.”

There’s no judgement on her face. It’s nothing but understanding and empathy and he forces himself to look away before the tears start up again.

“You know,” he says, clearing his throat, “the department offered for me to see one of their doctors, but I just couldn’t _be there_.”

“It doesn’t have to be one of theirs.”

“No, I know,” he nods again, “and you’re right.”

“Just think about it, please?”

He turns his hand around in hers, slips his fingers between hers and squeezes back, “I will.”

They sit there like that for a moment longer, quietly sipping on their drinks, before Sara finally tugs on his hand and he realises he can’t avoid it any longer.

“Come on.”

He groans a reluctant, “fine!” and follows her down onto the ice rink.

He’s every bit as terrible as he’d imagined he would be.

But for the smile on Sara’s face as she pulls him around, a dent in his pride is completely worth it.

 

:::::

 

Christmas Eve comes around in a blink.

The house is dressed from top to toe in fairy lights and tinsel, and after the Halloween party Sara had thrown, it’s not as if Rip had expected any differently. The dread that had seeped into this time of the year has slowly ebbed away, and though he’s not entirely at peace with it, for the first time in a long time, he thinks that maybe he’ll learn to be. That maybe that isn’t out of the realm of possibilities.

He’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth, when he hears Sara call from outside the door.

“Rip? You in there?”

He twists on the doorknob, and opens it.

Dressed in an oversized jumper over a pair of flannel pyjamas, she leans up against the doorframe and the frown on her face stops him mid-brush.

She’s chewing on her lower lip, worry and apology shining from her eyes. He quickly spits out the toothpaste and rinses his mouth.

“Sara? What’s wrong?”

“I have to go.”

He blinks, confused. “Go? Go where?”

She pushes past him into the bathroom, pulls down the lid of the toilet and sits down, elbows on knees, chin in hands. She looks so sad, and he feels his heart clench at the sight.

He crouches down in front of her. “Sara?”

“Mom and dad want me back in Star City for Christmas. I’m heading out first thing in the morning.”

“Oh,” he breathes out, incredulous, “is that all?”

“What do you mean _is that all_?” she huffs. “I wanted to spend Christmas with you, with you guys.”

“They probably-” he starts to say, but Sara just carries on talking over him.

“-I mean I get why. I know they’re missing Laurel, and I’m the only daughter they’ve got left, but I just thought they’d got to the point where they’d be okay now. That they could do it without me. And God! That makes me so selfish, doesn’t it? I am such a horrible person-”

“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching out, one hand finding it’s place on her cheek, the other on her knee, not that he’s even aware that he’s doing it, “you are not a horrible person, and you’re probably the least selfish person I know. But you should know, they’re never going to be completely okay. They’ll get better sure, but they’re always going to miss you and want you there for Christmas. It’s a parent thing,” he shrugs.

“A parent thing,” she repeats.

His lips twitch, and there’s a small smile on her face and he resists the sudden, inexplicable urge he has to trace his thumb over it. He pulls back.

“You’re saying I should go.”

“At least this year, and tell them how you feel.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

And there’s a blush on her face, and he can’t help but think she’s beautiful. It’s always been there, an abstract thought, on the peripheries of his mind, but he’s struck with the full force of it now and he just can’t _un-see_ it.

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I won’t be, I’ll have Nate and Amaya here, Ray said he’ll pop by too.”

Sara nods, her expression one of _yes, of course,_ before something seems to suddenly register, as she then says as if it isn’t a big deal, “oh and our landlord and his wife will be there! Oh, and our neighbour, too . . . I suppose you’re right then.”

He cocks his head to the side, utterly baffled. “You mean, the Steins? Mr Rory? Are coming to Christmas dinner?”

She nods, a smile slipping onto her lips, “yeah. Apparently, last month when Amaya went around to drop off the rent, the Prof started rambling about how he and his wife were feeling all nostalgic about this place, their first home after they got married, and she just sorta invited them.”

“Sorta invited them,” he repeats dumbly, shaking his head. “And Mr Rory?”

“Oh, I invited him.”

“Why?”

“Because no one should spend Christmas alone.”

He says nothing for the moment, watches as the blush darkens on her cheeks, eyes dropping to her hands in embarrassment.

“You, Miss Lance, are just one big softie.”

She looks up at him outraged. “No, I’m not! You do know, I know of a hundred ways I could kill you with your toothbrush, right?”

“I don’t doubt that.”

She huffs, “don’t tell anyone. I have a professional reputation to uphold.”

He nods, “your secret is safe with me.”

 

:::::

 

Christmas dinner turns into one surprisingly, entertaining evening.

Professor Martin Stein turns out to be a lovely, exceptionally intelligent man, with many rapturous stories to tell that keeps them all enthralled for hours. He’s so wrapped up in his own tales he doesn’t even notice the huge carpet stain in the living room, only partially covered up as it is by the strategically placed, sadly too small, rug. Mick Rory, their next-door neighbour, provides a soundtrack of grunts and one-word answers to any attempts to strike up a conversation. He wonders why the ex-fireman had even bothered to show up, but then by the number of empty beer bottles that line up next to him throughout the night, Rip thinks he has an inkling. That, and the man keeps staring across the table at Miss Jiwe, and by Dr Heywood’s returning glares, he also has a fair idea as to what might be going on there.

The food is lovely, store bought though most of it is, and they eat enough of it to be left sitting around the living room in a stupefied food coma, while they sing Christmas carols off-key. And by _they_ , he means everyone except him, and by _off-key_ , he’s referring to everyone except for the Professor, who they find out has a wonderful singing voice, but is far too kind to tell the rest of them to shut the bloody hell up.

It’s as he’s sitting there, half-dozing, that he feels his mobile phone vibrate in the pocket of his jeans. Fishing it out, he notices the blinking blue light of an incoming, unread message.

He knows who it is before he even opens it up.

He finds a smiling selfie of Sara wearing reindeer antlers on her head, and a cup of eggnog in hand.

**Merry Xmas! Has Nate punched Mick in the face yet?**

He huffs out a laugh, not that anyone has noticed him grinning inanely at his phone. He quickly types back:

**You knew, didn’t you?**

**What?**

**That Miss Jiwe has an admirer in Mr Rory?**

She sends him an **angel emoji.**

**…**

**Look** , she types back, **I thought it would be good for the poor guy to see that Amaya’s actually really happy with Nate**

**that he should move on.**

Rip shakes his head.

**And that’s all?**

**That’s all**

**Liar**

The **middle finger emoji** materialises on his screen.

**I’m not telling you about your present now**

He sits up a little straighter and frowns.

**I thought we weren’t doing presents** , he texts back.

**Well, we’re not NOW**

**SARA**

**RIP**

**…**

**Under your bed**

He stands up, and quietly creeps out of the room, but they’re all too busy raucously singing the wrong words to _Good King Wenceslas_ to even notice.

**You found it yet?**

**Hang on**

**What’s taking so long? You can’t miss it.**

He realises she’s right about that. Really, he probably should have noticed the bright red, glittery red box sitting under his bed this morning.

**Rip?**

**When did you sneak this into my room?**

**Scratch that. I don’t want to know**

He settles onto the edge of his bed, and lifts the lid. What he finds inside has him shaking his head in silent laughter.

**You won’t let it go, will you?**

There’s a great **big cheesy grin** of a response that pops up on his screen at that.

It’s a motorbike helmet that sits in his hands. He notices with an amused shake of his head that she even went as far as sticking a large gold bow above the visor.

**Thank you**

**I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything**

**That’s okay**

**You’re teaching me to bake, remember?**

**Ah yes. A deal’s a deal**

**Exactly**

**…**

**Merry Xmas Rip**

**Merry Christmas Sara**

 

:::::

 

The days after that blur into one steady stream of time.

New Year’s Day comes and goes. No one throws a party – too much hassle and the task of tidying up after not worth the trouble, not when they’re still working on clearing up the aftermath of Christmas – and so instead, the gang decide to drag him out to one of their favourite bars for dinner, and then watch the fireworks display in the park at the stroke of midnight.

For the first time in two years, he ends the 31st December sober, and it’s a huge step forward.

Sara returns to them a few days after that.

She looks a little tired, but her smile is wide and warm, as she grabs everyone in turn, hugging them tight, and not even blinking before pulling him close. It’s fleeting and passes without fanfare and if it disappoints him, he dismisses it, his finger twisting the golden band on his ring finger absentmindedly as he tells himself he’s being ridiculous.

She collapses next to him on the sofa in the evening, head dropping on his shoulder as she points the remote at the television screen with one hand, flicking mercilessly from one channel to the next.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” she asks, stifling a yawn as she settles on the National Geographic and waddling Emperor Penguins.

“Actually,” he says, swallowing, finger picking at an invisible piece of lint on his jeans, “I’ve got an appointment at 10.30.”

“An appointment?”

He nods.

She shifts, pushing herself up to look at him.

“An appointment? You mean-”

“She comes highly recommended, specialises in depression and PTSD, and I’ve been thinking about what you said, and mmmph-”

The rest of his words are muffled by her pressing into him, clutching him in a fierce, tight hug. Once he shakes himself out of his stunned daze, he allows his hands to come around her and return the embrace. Allows himself to simply savour the moment. He’s been so starved of physical contact, he hadn’t realised just how much he missed it. How much he _needed_ it.

She pulls away after a long minute, blinking furiously.

“Now who’s the liar?” she says softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you didn’t get me anything.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

Settles back on the sofa instead, Sara curling up beside him, and watches as the penguins make their seventy-five-mile winter trek across the Antarctic ice.

It’s a long journey, they’re told, but completely worth it in the end.

 

 

TBC

 

 

 


	3. spring

                                            

 

“We should get a cat. Or a dog. Or a budgerigar.”

A burst of laughter spills from Sara’s lips as she flops down on the bed beside Amaya, the sudden movement jostling her usually steady hand. There’s a wayward streak of nail paint to show for it on her fingers, not that Sara notices as she lies back and stares up at the ceiling, lips curling into amusement. “A budgerigar?”

Amaya remains unfazed – both by the mockery and her ruined nails. She swipes a tissue from the box next to her, and wipes away the mess. She shrugs, “I don’t really have a preference, I just think we should get a pet.”

“Hmm,” Sara thinks it over, one hand bent underneath her head, the other lying flat against her stomach. “I vote cat.”

“We are not getting a cat!”

Sara turns her head in Amaya’s direction, who responds in kind, hand freezing over her half-painted nail, mirroring the surprised look on her face.

She sits up, and yep there he is. Hovering at the door, arms folded across his chest and a firm look on his face, inviting no arguments.

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Rip.”

“I wasn’t. You forget, Miss Lance, that I am in the room right next door. And the _walls are very thin._ ”

There’s a faint hint of a blush on his cheeks, and she wonders at it, until of course, she notices the very obvious way he’s avoiding looking at Amaya, and how she’s doing just the same.

She can’t contain the howl of laughter as she puts it together.

“Oh, shut up! And this is why I normally stay over at Nate’s. For the last time Rip, I’m sorry. I thought you were out!”

Rip jerks his head in a nod, “that’s quite alright Miss Jiwe. It’s been forgotten.”

“Ha!” Sara smirks. “Yeah, right.”

Rip glares back at her. “We are not getting a cat,” he says again, the words snap and harsh, his accent even more pronounced, before he storms off.

Sara clambers off the bed, the movement jostling Amaya once more, and this time she does let out an irritated sigh.

“Sorry,” she winces in apology, but is already out the door, following Rip down the stairs to hear Amaya grunt back an unconvincing, “ _it’s fine_.”

“Except you’re outnumbered, Rip, two to one!” She’s not finished with this conversation by any stretch of the imagination.

He whirls on the spot, and she finds herself colliding with his chest as they come to a stop in the kitchen. He takes a breath in and steps back.

“Ah yes, damn democracy. Because there are no flaws in that fool proof, peace bringing, one-size fits all, ideology.”

She leans back against the breakfast counter, watching as he pours water into the kettle.

“I never knew you were such an anarchist. You’ve been holding back on us.”

He drops his mug on the counter with a thud, and turns back around to face her, rolling his eyes as he does, “I’m not. I’m just saying, in this case, I think this is something we should unanimously agree on.”

“So, no cat?” She pouts at him, not that she thinks it’ll work, but it’s fun watching him sigh in exasperation. His eyes drop to her lips, lingering a second too long, before flickering up to her eyes. She swallows.

“ _No cat_.”

She crosses her arms against her chest and clears her throat. “Oh, you’ll change your mind.”

“I assure you. I won’t.”

“Oh, like how you didn’t with the snow?”

“I didn’t. I still hate snow.”

Sara swipes a red delicious from the fruit basket, and takes a bite – the apple crunching loudly between her teeth. “If you say so.”

“I do. Say so.”

“Uh huh.”

This, she thinks, _isn’t over_.

And by the scowl on his face, as he walks back out of the kitchen, Rip knows it too.

 

:::::

 

March dawdles along. And as promised, she continues to plead her case for a cat. At least every _other_ day – not wanting to bombard him with her campaign, of course. And anyway, she thinks the constant stream of cat videos she sends to him on his phone, and the ‘cat of the day’ pictures she leaves stuck to the fridge every morning, are more than enough to get her point across.

Retrieving her phone at the end of class, she finds an earlier unread message from Rip, which simply says:

**FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SARA. WE. ARE. NOT. GETTING. A. CAT.**

She laughs. Maybe she needs to step up her tactics. It’s clearly not working.

Stepping out of the showers, she gets dressed in her plain black t-shirt and jeans, leather jacket over her shoulders, self-satisfied smile on her face as she walks out of the changing rooms. She might not be making any headway with Rip and the _Great Cat Campaign of 2017_ , but she certainly is making a breakthrough with her class.

Thursday evenings are usually her favourite. It’s when she gets to teach her self-defence class to a group of twelve- and thirteen-year old girls. Watching them leave with a spring in their step and a sense of empowerment is always a high.

Tonight, is no different.

It’s no different, except for the familiar figure hovering by the exit. No one ever visits her at work. Which, in hindsight, really should have been her first clue that something was wrong.

“Hey,” she calls out, “this is a nice surprise!”

Her smile widens at the sight of her favourite tech genius, until she draws closer and notes the absence of his usual warm, toothy grin. Instead his lips are spread thin, creases around his eyes, marking the lines of tension, and the fear shines bright from his eyes.

And somehow getting a cat seems the least of her worries right now.

Panic sparks to life in her gut, catching alight before he’s even said a word. It burns its way up her gullet and she feels sick with it.

“What’s wrong?” she manages to ask. And then: “is it Rip?”

And she doesn’t know why he’s the first person she thinks of. The first person that makes her fear for the worst and why the very idea of it leaves her wanting to gasp for air, but Ray’s shaking his head, spilling out the words in a rush, “no. No, it’s not Rip. Rip’s fine. It’s Jax.”

“Jax?” And that sick feeling doesn’t shift. Just amplifies, blending with mounting confusion. “Is he okay? What happened?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t know all the details, but he’s at St Luke’s. We should go. Now.”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence, heads straight for the cab waiting for them on the curb.

 

:::::

 

An asshole customer, not happy with the price of a carburettor repair, that’s what happened. That’s what this whole damn thing comes down to.

A boot to the head, and a punctured lung, and he’s lucky to be alive.

Sara wants to kick something, punch someone, preferably murder the fucking bastard that did this. She can’t sit still. Knee bouncing off the shiny white hospital floor, hands gripped into fists so tight, her nails are digging into her skin.

The doctor has just left them there after giving them the news they’d been holding their breaths for. He’s going to be okay. And he’ll be awake soon. The relief is palpable but the anger simmers away in everything that’s not being said.

Mrs Jackson bursts into tears at the announcement; Amaya there beside her, pulling her into a hug. Nate rubs a tired hand over his face; Ray opting to simply collapse back in his seat. And Rip? She looks up, searches the waiting room around her and frowns.

_Where is he?_

She doesn’t know when she became so easy to read, but Ray catches her gaze and wordlessly nods in the direction of the corridor. She presses her lips together in a poor imitation of a thankful smile, stands up and heads that way.

She doesn’t have to go too far. She spots him easy enough. Khaki green jacket bunching up at his shoulders as he presses his hands down onto the window sill, head down, his hair skimming the surface of the glass as he takes in a deep, steadying breath.

He doesn’t look up at her approach. Doesn’t startle at the hand she places on his back.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

He shakes his head.

“Yeah, stupid question,” she sighs, looking out the window onto the small, but well-kept patient garden. It looks surprisingly peaceful out there. At least if the expression of the old man in his wheelchair, sneaking a cigarette, is anything to go by. But that may just be the nicotine.

He lifts his head. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“This isn’t even about me. I just . . . hate this. All of this.”

_This_ doesn’t need an explanation. She knows exactly what he means.

“I know,” she says.

He breathes out, and turns to look at her. Red-rimmed, green eyes stare back at her.

She holds her breath.

“You always do,” is all he says.

 

:::::

 

From Jax’s crooked smile and laughter, it’s hard to imagine he’d literally been knocking on death’s door just a few hours before. That is until his laughter turns into a hacking cough, and frightening gasps for air, that has Mrs Jackson chiding her son, and the rest of the gang panicking around him.

“Relax. Guys. I’m fine,” he wheezes. “It was only a little stab wound, jeez.”

“Yeah, and you’re not made of steel,” Nate retorts, rubbing an affectionate hand over his head, which Jax dodges with a grimace.

They don’t get to stay too long, the nurses chasing them out of there long before visiting hours are up. It’s not so much an unsurprising turn of events, given the fact they blatantly flaunt their disobedience of the ‘no more than two visitors at the bedside rule’, as it is more _they had it coming._ In any case, it’s for the best, as contrary to Jax’s assertions, their friend isn’t Superman. He’s tired, and desperately needing rest. And so they leave, with promises to check in on him tomorrow.

They wind up at their place. No one willing to let the other out of their sights, and so they just stay. Scattered over the living room couches and floor, and Sara takes in the sight around her and blinks away her tears.

This, she thinks, _this is her family._

And she loves them all. So much.

And the urge to say it burns under her skin, until she can finally tell someone. Anyone.

That anyone happens to be Ray. He’s the only one still awake as he takes the stool next to hers at the breakfast bar, soft snores filling the room around them.

“I love you, Ray.”

He doesn’t even blink, wraps an arm around her and hugs her into his side, “I love you too, Sara.”

“I love all of you guys,” she says on a sigh, letting her head drop onto his chest.

His voice is a rumble in her ear, as he then says, “though I’m pretty sure you don’t love us all the same.” The implication clear enough.

Her retort is muffled by his jumper, “what are you talking about? I don’t have any favourites.”

“Hmm,” is the only sound he makes, as if to say she’s being purposely obtuse.

“I don’t.”

He squeezes her into him once more, before letting go. He stands up, eyes flickering around the room before they land on Rip, head tilted back in the armchair, fast asleep, and Sara’s heart pounds in her ears and she knows now. Knows she can no longer claim ignorance.

Ray looks back at her, a gentle smile on his face. “Just be careful. Okay?”

She sighs. Denies nothing. Admits to something.

“Okay.”

 

:::::

 

Weeks pass and Jax makes a full recovery.

And things get back to normal.

Almost.

She goes through cycles. Dismissing Ray’s words as crazy talk, reassuring herself that he didn’t actually say anything at all, it’s just her reading into things. But then the little devil on her shoulder kindles the fire by questioning just _why_ she _is_ reading into it. That maybe, _just maybe_ , there’s some truth in it after all.

If she’s been distancing herself from Rip, she doesn’t do it on purpose.

She doesn’t even notice it, not until the man, astute as ever, comments on it.

It’s a bright Saturday morning. The first of April has come and gone, and they’ve all managed to come away unscathed. By some silent, universal agreement, they decided to forego the annual April Fool’s Day shenanigans, and truth be told, she thinks they’re all a little grateful for the reprieve. She thinks Jax’s brush with death is still weighing heavily on everyone.

Amaya has disappeared with Nate for the weekend, leaving her and Rip alone. Which, now that she thinks about it, makes her avoidance even more obvious.

She can feel him staring at her with those intense green eyes, concern shining bright across the breakfast counter.

“Sara? You okay?”

“Hmm?”

He scratches his stubbled jaw, and she looks away over at the kitchen sink. _And oh look! Last night’s dishes. To wash._

His eyes follow her, burning into her back.

“Did I do something to upset you?”

And oh God. She can just imagine the sad, guilty eyes and her fingers grip the edge of the sink a little harder. “No, why would you say that?”

“Because you’re willingly doing the dishes to avoid looking at me.” Now there’s a tinge of amusement in his words, but the genuine concern and worry is hard to escape.

She breathes in and out, turns on the taps and lets the water flow. “I’m not. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a little weird, and spaced out these few weeks, it’s just-”

“No, I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s moved around to this side of the counter now, leaning back against it, just behind her. “Of course, you’re still upset about Jax. That’s understandable. But he’s going to make a full recovery, and you know, you can always talk to me, Sara.”

She swallows. “Since when did you become the poster child for talking about feelings?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Since you made me go to therapy.”

She spins back around, “I didn’t _make_ you.”

He shrugs, and concedes, “I know.”

She clears her throat, takes the opening he’s given her to change the subject away from her. “How’s that all going, anyway?”

If he notices what she’s doing, he makes no show of it; answers her instead with a shrug of the shoulders. “Good. Actually. Some days are better than others. But I’ve been thinking about maybe re-joining the force.”

She blinks. She hadn’t been expecting that. “Wow. That’s huge.”

Rip nods. “It wouldn’t be for a while yet, but I’ve realised that I loved working for the police, feeling like I could make a difference, and after what happened with Jax, it just made more sense to me. That there is where I’m supposed to be . . .” he trails off at the end, and Sara knows there’s more he’s not saying.

“But?” she prompts.

He sighs. “But, I can’t help but feel guilty about the idea. There’s a part of me that’s always going to blame myself, my job, for what happened to Miranda and Jonas . . . If I hadn’t been on the Savage case, then . . . _then_ _they’d still be alive_.”

His sentence sits there. Heavy in the air around them. She feels it fill up her lungs, taking up the space where air should be, and it’s overwhelming.

He’s never spoken about it. The guilt that he feels. The guilt they’ve all known must weigh him down, dragging behind his every footstep, tugging him down under the waves, every breath a fight against drowning. To have him voice it aloud? It’s that much more devastating.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers, and she can’t even see his expression clearly, eyes glazing over with tears that she is _not_ going to cry.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever truly believe that, but I’m learning to make my peace with it.”

Damn it, she thinks, so much for not crying. She spins back around, tries to re-focus on the dishes in front of her, but then he’s moving to stand beside her. He gently takes the dish from her hand and starts drying it.

“So . . .” he starts after a long, silent moment, “what was it you said? About me not doing anything to upset you?”

She sniffs loudly, before reaching out to hit him, the back of her hand lightly smacking his stomach, “you’re an asshole.”

“So I’ve been told many times before.”

It’s not quite laughter from her lips, but it’s something. “I’m just really glad you’re doing better.”

He nods, doesn’t say anything more. She’s well aware he’s not entirely convinced, not when they managed to side-step the topic, but it’s enough for now, and though she knows she’ll have to face it sooner or later, she can breathe a little better knowing that that’s _not today_.

 

:::::

 

The following afternoon, Rip delivers on a promise she’d almost entirely forgotten about.

Thinking back on it later, she’d probably dub this as the moment it all changed.

The beginning of the end.

She’s dozing in the living room, book slipping out of her grasp, having made it no further than page two, when Rip calls out, snapping her awake.

“Come on.”

Her head jerks up from the armrest of the couch, follows the voice to find him standing there in a black t-shirt and jeans, which in itself isn’t anything out of the ordinary. No. No, it’s the apron he’s donned on top of it, plus the apron he has in his hand, which he then proceeds to throw in her direction, that has her blinking at him in confusion.

She catches it easily, shaking her head with a burgeoning smile when she realises just what they’re doing.

“Baking.”

“Baking,” he repeats with a grin.

She slips the apron on and walks over to the kitchen, where he’s already turned away to grab at bowls and wooden spoons. The ingredients have been neatly laid out, and she runs her fingers over them. Self-raising flour. Caster sugar. Butter. Eggs. Baking powder.

“What are we making?”

“All-in-one sponge.”

She pulls a face.

“What?” he asks, “you have to learn to walk before you can fly, Miss Lance.”

“Miss Lance,” she repeats with a smile, “you don’t call me that so much anymore.” She’s not sure why she says it. It’s just something she’s noticed, over time.

He looks down at her, a red stain colouring his cheeks, “I don’t mean to presume . . .” He trails off, and she can see him struggling with whatever it is he wants to say.

She decides to be merciful. “Presume what, Rip? That we’re _friends_? I’m fine with you calling me Sara. It’s just, I kinda like the _Miss Lance_ , too.”

His lips twitch into a smile, “I’ll endeavour to remember that, Miss Lance.” She swears he makes his British accent thicker on purpose when he says it. She’s beginning to suspect he’s not entirely oblivious to just what sort of power it yields.

“So,” she says, rubbing her hands together, pulling her mind from that dangerous path, “where do we start?”

“Weighing the ingredients.”

“Okay,” she nods, grabbing the eggs, “let me know when we get to the fun part.” She then starts juggling three of them, and she can feel the horror rolling off of him in waves.

“Sara!”

“Forgotten the ‘Miss Lance’ already?”

“Sara you’re going to-”

“Whoops.”

“-drop them.”

To be fair, she hasn’t juggled anything in a long time, and anyway, this isn’t all on her. “You distracted me! This is your fault, Captain. Not mine.”

He takes a deep breath, doesn’t deign to argue, summons up all his reserves of patience and slides the flour along, “225 grams.”

“This thing’s in ounces.”

“8 ounces, then.”

“You know, I thought baking is supposed to be fun?”

“It is.”

“Then, lighten up,” she says, and she knows it’s probably not a good idea, but it’s there right in front of her, and well. She can’t _not._ And so she sticks her hand in the bag of flour and chucks a handful at him.

There’s a dusting of flour covering his t-shirt now – black perhaps not being the best choice of colour – the rest of it is covering his hair, sticking to his eyelashes, and he does not look amused. _At all_.

She suppresses the urge to laugh. “This,” she says, gesturing to his face with a hand, “should totally be your Halloween costume next year.”

She expects the retaliation, but still shrieks when she gets a face full of flour.

Sara goes to grab some more, but then he’s much too close all of a sudden, crowding behind her, hands grabbing hold of her arms and locking her in place.

“Miss Lance,” he says in her ear, and she thinks her entire body must be on fire, and she just wants to melt, right there and then. “One free throw. That’s all you get. Now, I’m going to let go, and trust that you won’t be wasting any more of our ingredients. I only have the one bag of flour.”

She doesn’t know why that last sentence cracks her up, but it does. She starts giggling then, and she can feel him grinning into her hair.

“Understood?”

“Understood,” she nods.

He gently lets her go and steps back. She lifts her hands up in a show of peace, and he shakes his head at her, flour flying off him, and despite being covered in white, the colour on his cheeks still manages to come through.

Sara turns back to her task, making a concerted effort to steady her voice. “8 ounces.”

“8 ounces,” he tells her once more.

They manage to get through the rest of the lesson without wasting any more of the ingredients. The majority, she’s pleased to say, ends up in the cake. The mixing bowl is fair dibs though, so as Rip slips their cake into the oven, she pulls herself up onto the kitchen counter top and starts licking the spoon.

Catching sight of her, he grimaces.

“What?” she says, the words muffled around the batter in her mouth.

“Raw cake mixture. I never got the appeal.”

“You’re missing out.”

“I somehow doubt that,” he says, stepping up beside her.

“Thank you,” she says then.

“You haven’t tasted the end-product yet.”

“It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.” She frowns, not quite believing those words have left her mouth. It’s the sappiest load of shit she’s ever spewed, and damn it, he’s laughing at her.

“Shut up!”

He seems to sober after a minute. “I had fun too.”

Her scowl softens into a smile, and his eyes dance over her face, landing on her nose. He smiles, and she doesn’t even realise she’s holding her breath as he reaches up and brushes away the flour. Her eyes drop to his lips and the smile on his own face freezes.

He steps away.

“I should go . . . get cleaned up.”

“Right,” the word a struggle, what with her mouth having gone dry.

He turns on his feet then, and disappears without a backward glance.

Sara doesn’t move.

Not for some time.

 

:::::

 

She doesn’t have to worry about avoiding him after that.

He does half the work for her.

That, in itself, doesn’t bother her. What bothers her is the fact absolutely _nothing_ changes when they _are_ in the same room together. There’s nothing in his tone, in his choice of words, nothing to suggest that he had been just as affected by her as she had by him.

She’s past denying it to herself now.

She's attracted to him.

It had somehow, against all logic, crept up on her.

She thinks he’s always been handsome, but over time, as his cheeks gained more colour, his face became less gaunt, and he started putting some weight back on; as the frown lines morphed into laughter lines, and the green in his eyes brightened, and his gaze grew more confident, bolder; as kindness became no longer simply stories spun by others, but tales she could tell herself; as he became the one person she wanted to see first thing in the morning, sitting on that same stool, with newspaper in hand, and tea in the other; as he became the one person she wanted to talk to last thing at night, she realises it’s more than him being _simply handsome_. It’s more than _just attraction_.

Which is why his indifference hurts more than it should.

It’s also why she finds herself in her current predicament.

It’s a Friday night, and the gang, for once in a very long time, are at full strength. Jax is finally off his pain medications and requested celebratory drinks. They all agreed on the proviso he takes it easy, which he reluctantly promised to do, but Amaya’s keeping a hawk-like gaze on him all night regardless.

They’re packed into their usual booth, and of course, as luck would have it, she’s sitting opposite Rip, with Ray to her right.

It seems he’s laying off the alcohol tonight; but not her, _nope_.

She downs another round of shots, and she can see the judgemental frown inching its way down his forehead. But it’s not that which keeps drawing her attention. No, it’s the way he keeps twisting that damned ring on his finger, and it’s like he’s twisting the knife he’s lodged in her chest with it.

Because she can’t even be mad.

This is _her_ problem.

Not his.

And so she makes a decision. A very sudden, split-second decision.

Spotting the first attractive stranger she can find, she grabs her drink, and excuses herself to rest of the gang’s bemusement.

The guy she locks eyes with first turns out to be as dull as a doorknob, but she doesn’t need conversation. Sara kisses him four minutes in. It’s hot and heavy, and despite it all, it doesn’t get her heart-racing. She declines his offer of leaving together, and doesn’t even take his cell number.

She doesn’t dare look back at their table.

No, she just accepts a free drink, and does it all over again.

She spends the rest of the night like that: flirting with strangers – men, women, anyone who gives her a slow smile, or a flutter of their eyelashes – all the while ignoring the voice yelling in her head that this is a terrible idea.

She’s sipping on another cocktail, when someone finally calls her on it.

It’s Ray who slips onto the barstool beside her.

“Hey, Ray!” she smiles, patting him on the leg. She’s well on her way to being drunk, not that she realises it. Because everything is fine. F-Y-N-E. She giggles.

Except, something in her drunken haze, tells her somethings wrong. Because Ray, lovely Ray, isn’t smiling. No, if anything, he looks angry.

“What’s the matter?” she slurs.

“What are you playing at, Sara?” he hisses. And oh boy. He’s angry. Very angry.

“I’m not playing at anything! Why?” she spins on her seat, and somehow doesn’t fall off. Oh! That’s because Ray, strong, lovely Ray, is holding her in place.

Her gaze lands on their table, and everyone’s frowning. Why is everyone frowning? And where’s Rip?

“He’s gone home.”

“Oh,” she says, and just like that, the last dredges of her sobriety fight their way through, and she feels ill with it.

It must show on her face, because Ray’s expression softens as he sighs. Grabs hold of her arm, and says, “come on, let’s get you home.”

 

::::::

 

She wakes to a pounding headache, and the distinct feeling of wanting to shrivel up and die. She’s not felt acute embarrassment like this in years. She’s been drunk and hungover many times before, but never wasted her time marinating in shame. She couldn’t care less what others thought of her.

But this? This is different.

The glass of water, and bottle of aspirin on the table beside her, the trash can moved so that it’s just poking out from under her bed, only serves to make her feel that much worse.

She supposes it could have been Amaya.

But something tells her it wasn’t.

 

:::::

 

“That was quite something, Sara.”

She rubs a hand over her face, dragging herself into the living room, and collapsing onto the armchair.

Amaya’s sitting by the dining table, laptop open, fingernails tapping on the glass of water beside her.

She winces with the clink-clink-clink.

“What happened?”

She doesn’t answer, her gaze shifting around the room, and Amaya catches on quick.

“He’s not here.”

And she can’ help but think, _fuck. Does_ everyone _know?_

She debates her next choice of words, knows it’ll probably give too much away that she’s not yet ready to admit to, but she doesn’t really know what else she can say.

“It wasn’t about him.”

“Okay, so it wasn’t about him,” Amaya ripostes, but somehow, she thinks she’s just placating her, doesn’t believe it for a second. “It was about something though.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

She sighs. “Well, when you do . . .”

Sara nods.

Amaya closes her laptop, wedges it under her arm as she stands up and crosses the room. Leaning down she presses a kiss into Sara’s hair, before leaving her to process.

Alone, she takes in a deep breath and digs out her phone.

**Thanks for taking care of me this morning**

She waits. Watches as the last seen time stamp changes to _online_.

**Are you okay?**

She contemplates lying. Contemplates brushing it off. Decides against it. Because at the end of it all, they’re friends. And that means everything to her. And it’s enough.

**No**

**but I will be**

**Yeah?**

**Yeah. But you know what would really help me feel better?**

**What?**

<https://cutecats.com>

**You, Miss Lance, are quite something**

**That’s not a no**

**I’LL TAKE IT**

The _online_ motif switches back to the time stamp.

And though he says nothing further, she can imagine the exasperated shake of his head, and the fond smile.

And she reminds herself, once again, that it’s enough.

It’s more than enough.

 

:::::

 

There’s an uptick in the weather during the first week of May. April had been saturated with rain, the temperatures stuck hovering below average for the time of year. And so, when the clouds clear and the sun finally finds it’s spot in the sky, Ray declares they’re having a picnic.

“A picnic, dude? Why?” Jax is not impressed, chewing on a handful of peanuts.

“Because it’s a lovely day, the sun is shining, the birds are singi-”

“And the hills are alive with the sound of music!” Nate sings the words. Though she’s not sure that what comes out of his mouth could constitute singing.

Ray folds his arms across his chest, as he stands there, legs apart. And despite his stature, he doesn’t look any more menacing than normal. Which is to say: _not at all_.

“I was also going to add,” he says then, “that it’ll give you guys a chance to meet Kendra.”

That stops everyone in their tracks.

“Kendra?” Sara says, a sly smile tipping the corners of her lips upwards. “You mean the pretty barista you’ve had a crush on for years-”

“It wasn’t years!”

“-but have been too afraid to ask out-”

“-I wasn’t afraid, she had a boyfriend! It’s a long story!”

“-but you _finally_ did!”

“Way to go Raymond!” Nate raises his hand for a high-five. “Oh, come on man, don’t leave me hanging! Yep, there we go!”

“Good on you, Ray!” Sara pats him on the back. “I’d love to meet her.”

“Yeah, you know what?” Ray says, taking a step back with the look of a man realising he’s made a terrible mistake. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, after all. Yeah, you know what? Now that I think about it, the weatherman said there’s a sixty-five percent chance it’s gonna rain, so . . .”

“Too late,” Jax grins, “we’re coming.”

 

:::::

 

Kendra Saunders is every bit as beautiful as Ray had endlessly sighed over.

She’s also ridiculously sweet and friendly, and she thinks they all fall in love with her a little.

The only person who has yet to meet her is Rip. According to his last text, his therapy session is running late, plus he has a quick errand to run but he’ll be coming as soon as he can, and to please pass on his apologies.

“Rip’s running late,” she says, slipping her phone back into the pocket of her jeans as she grabs another sandwich off the paper plates. She’s already had enough food, but the last sandwich had been calling out to her and she could sense Nate eyeing it up, and so naturally she just has to give into the childish desire to beat him to it.

His face falls. She smirks, victorious.

An errant soccer ball comes flying in their direction then, which Jax manages to scoop up before it does any damage and throws back. They’ve settled in a relatively quiet spot of the park, as far away from the children’s play area as possible, but a little too close to the pond for her liking. The constant duck quacking is irritating. She’d tolerated it for the last hour, but thinks she’s suffered it long enough.

Pulling herself to stand, she tells them she’s going to go catch some sun and a few winks a little further away, but they’re happily engrossed in their conversations to not take offence.

She finds herself wandering not too far away, before settling herself down on a patch of grass, warm in the spring sun, surrounded by daisies and dandelions. She lies back and closes her eyes.

She doesn’t know how long she’s there for. Dozing, drifting in and out of consciousness. At some point, she hears shrieks of surprise and joy, but her intrigue isn’t enough to outweigh the lazy peace that’s settled in.

The next time she wakes, it’s to an odd tickle against her cheek. She rubs at the spot blindly, batting it away. But that does nothing. It’s back again and she scrunches her eyes in annoyance. This time there’s a distinct low chuckle she recognises instantly, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a purring cat.

She blinks her eyes open, to find herself staring into the green eyes of the cutest being ever. The man’s not too shabby either.

“Hi,” Rip smiles at her.

“Hi,” she says, pulling herself to a sitting position, the beautiful, grey and white American shorthair, rubbing up against her leg.

She opens her mouth, but the words escape her, until all she can manage is a dumfounded: “you got me a cat?”

“Well,” he shrugs, fingers stroking along the kitten’s back, as it sits there in her lap, “I got _us_ a cat. Miss Jiwe included, of course. She just met Gideon a few moments ago. I must say, her reaction is more along the lines of what I was expecting from you.”

“Gideon?” Sara repeats, her mind stuck on that.

“Yes,” Rip says, eyes falling to the cat, “her name’s Gideon.”

Sara nods, a smile blooming on her lips, “Gideon. I like it.”

Rip sits back then, his hand falling away to pick at a daisy, twisting the stem around in his fingers. Sara watches the whirl of white around the yellow centre and swallows down the lump in her throat.

“What made you change your mind?”

“I think it must have been Cat of the Day number 43.”

She snorts, “yes. That was one very cute cat. I knew even you couldn’t resist it.”

“Yes, well, I guess I just needed time.”

And it’s the way he’s looking at her, the shy, hopeful smile on his lips, the way his gaze holds hers, steady and constant. Silently telling her that he understands, just like he always has. To trust.

That maybe she’s not alone

She never has been.

And she hears him. Loud and clear.

_Time_.

She can give him that.

 

 

TBC

 

 

 


	4. summer

 

                                           

 

Anhedonia.

The inability to gain pleasure from normally pleasurable experiences.

It appears the medical profession has a word for just about everything. When Rip tells Dr Berg how he’d spent the better part of the last two years – avoiding just about everything, because it all seemed so pointless, meant nothing, did nothing, how the very idea of picking up a book, going for a run, eating, talking, no longer held any appeal, just felt altogether too exhausting – she simply smiles at him in that benign way and tells him, _it’s okay_.

That what he’s been feeling is a core symptom of depression. Just like how heartburn could be a symptom of an ulcer, or knee pain the beginnings of arthritis.

_But it’s not the same_ , he argues.

_Why?_ she asks. _Because it’s in your head? Because you can’t see it? You can’t see heartburn or pain either._

He thinks he can make up another hundred arguments to her point, but then finds himself wondering _why? What point is he even trying to prove?_

Because what he feels is _real._ Is _valid._

And _that_ he realises, as he watches the smile on Dr Berg’s face stay firmly in place, _is exactly the point._

“And now?” she asks. “How do you feel about those things now?”

It’s been months since he started seeing her, getting the help that he so desperately needed but couldn’t find the motivation to seek.

And for the first time, he sits and truly thinks about it. Just how far he’s come.

He thinks about how now he feels _disappointed_ when he’s out with the guys for dinner and the night draws to a close. How he managed to sit the entire way through _Pacific Rim_ the other day and found himself invested in what actually happened to Mako and Raleigh. How he’s baked more in the last month than he had in years, and how that warmth in his chest as his friends bite into his cupcakes with widened eyes and mumble over and over “dude these are amazing!” with their mouths full, is what pride and pleasure feels like. And that he’d forgotten just how _good_ it feels.

He’s not there a hundred percent. He’s not sure he ever will be. Still has his dark moments, times when it’s a struggle to get out of his head, but he’s learning that _that’s okay too._ That that darkness is a piece of him he’s learning to accept. And there’s no denying it any longer. Because it isn’t a dirty word. Because what he feels is-

“Rip?”

He smiles back. “Better. I feel _better_.”

 

:::::

 

Sara meets him outside the building, coffee cup in hand, sunglasses perched on her head.

“Hey,” she smiles wide on seeing him.

“Hey,” he says, not realising he’s already smiling.

“You look happy,” she notes, tilting her head to the side as she hands the cup over. “Good session?”

He nods, takes a sip of his drink and then proceeds to roll his eyes. “You’re just going to keep torturing me, aren’t you? Are you ever going to tell me what’s in this?”

“Nope.”

He shakes his head at her, but then notices the frown that suddenly appears on her face at about the same time a hand gently presses on his shoulder. She’s looking beyond it, at the person who’s standing there now behind him, trying to draw his attention.

He twists to the side to find Dr Berg there, clearly on her way out to get lunch.

“That was great today, Rip. I’ll see you next week?” she says, her eyes flickering to Sara before back to scanning the road for a cab.

He nods, “uh yes. Yes, you will.”

She smiles, “good. Enjoy the rest of the day,” and then she’s off down the road, her heels clicking on the ground as she strides along.

“ _That’s_ your doctor?”

He spins back around to face Sara, who’s still staring after the woman.

“Yes.”

She says nothing. Pulls an expression which prompts him to ask, “what? What’s that face for?”

“It’s nothing,” she shrugs, before adding, “it’s just I was going to say . . . she’s . . . _hot_.”

“Should I be jealous?” he asks, without even thinking.

It’s only as she looks up at him, surprise twinkling from her blue eyes, that he realises what he’s given away.

“You mean should _I_ be jealous?” she bats back instead.

“Oh absolutely,” he says with a grin.

She snatches back his coffee cup and starts walking, leaving him to laugh and run after.

 

:::::

 

He’s not blind.

He’s aware of what’s been building between them.

He can’t really pin point where it started. It all sort of just snuck up on him. He hadn’t been looking for it. Hadn’t expected it. Certainly, hadn’t _wanted_ it.

But it’s a difficult thing for him to accept.

The feelings are tied up with a sense of guilt that’s hard to escape. The golden band around his ring finger feels cold, tight. A constant reminder.

But it’s not fair, he knows. Not fair to place that burden on Sara. To place that burden on Miranda’s memory. Because he loves her. He misses her. And he’s not certain that that is ever going to stop.

But then Sara’s not making this any easier for him, either.

He’s not entirely oblivious.

Ever since that beautiful afternoon in the park, she’s made a point of toeing the line between outright flirting yet not pushing too hard. He’s grateful for it, but sometimes even that feels like a little too much. Has him flustered and blushing, and turning on his heels and running away.

It’s frustrating. Not being able to move forward.

He flops down on his bed with a sigh, Gideon jumping up beside him, and nestling herself in the crook of his arm.

Despite having really got the kitten for Sara and Amaya, Gideon seems to have taken a shine to him. Following him around, scratching at his door in the middle of the night, until he’s forced out of bed to let her in, weaving between his legs so that he’s almost always tripping over her – the situation is getting a little out of hand.

But then. One look is all it takes.

One look into her eyes and he’s melting on the spot, and he’s rendered helpless.

The girls think it’s hilarious.

That is when they’re not pouting in jealousy.

Speaking of.

“Of course she’s here with you!” Sara huffs from his doorway. He doesn’t have to lift his head to know she’s standing there, shoulder pressing into the doorframe, arms across her chest, eyebrows furrowed. “I just put out a whole tray of treats and she’s nowhere to be seen.”

“Sara,” he says, exasperation creeping into his tone, “you can’t just keep feeding her treats. It’s not going to make her like you better. You can’t bribe her affections.”

That, naturally, goes down just about as well as could be expected. He feels the sudden shift in the springs of his mattress as she climbs on top of his bed.

“What are you . . .” His words trail off as he turns to the side to find her lying on the bed next to him, head on the pillow, blonde hair fanning out around her as she pries Gideon out of his hold and places the kitten on her chest.

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“Of course not.”

“I’m not!”

He watches as Gideon widens her tiny jaw in a yawn, before settling her head down on Sara, hind legs stretching out behind her.

He smiles. “See, she loves you. How can anyone not?”

The words sit there. Resting between them. The only thing he can offer her at this moment in time, and he hopes that she’s reading between the lines.

She turns her head in his direction, and he can’t help but think that this is what it could be like. Her blonde hair against the white of his sheets, bright in the morning sun, blue eyes still hazy with sleep, smile inching its way into his pillows. The freckles across her skin too many to count, not that it stops him from trying, stops him from pressing his lips to every single one until she’s fully awake, laughter spilling from her own.

He wonders if she can read his mind, because there’s the slow hint of a smile spreading across her face, and he’s holding his breath.

“I never knew you could play the guitar.”

He rolls his head back onto his pillow, looks up at the ceiling and groans. He really should have put that away.

But he’s been thinking about all those things he used to enjoy, and just stopped doing, and he remembered his guitar, sitting in its case, gathering dust under his bed. He hasn’t played it yet. Just held it in his hands, propped it up against the side of his window and stared at it.

“Can you play something for me?”

The words distort into a flash of déjà vu, and he can hear those same words, a different voice, a different smile, but hopeful all the same.

He swallows. “Maybe one day.”

She doesn’t push. And once again he marvels at her knowing just where that line is.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Swim,” he answers on instinct.

“What? How can you not be able to swim?” This seems to genuinely shock her. She looks horrified.

“Well, I can stay afloat for about a minute and I wouldn’t really call that swimming, would you?”

“I’ll have to teach you.”

He shakes his head, “I thought you were teaching me how to ride your motorcycle?”

“I can teach you both. Speaking of, thanks for reminding me, I’d nearly forgotten all about that.”

“Oh bloody hell,” he groans. “Now why did I have to go and do that?”

She gives him a consolatory pat on the stomach. Not that it means much when she follows it up with a grin, and a questioning “tomorrow?” He notes with a wry smile that she doesn’t really leave him any options to decline.

Not that he ever would.

“Fine. Tomorrow.”

 

:::::

 

Tomorrow creeps up with a rising sun painting the sky in hues of oranges and reds, fading to pink and disappearing into blue. But it’s not until much later, well into the late afternoon, when the sun is starting its descent and most of the day is gone that they finally make a move.

Sara blames him and his sudden need to clear out the kitchen cupboards in the middle of the day. He argues it’s a necessary job and someone had to do it, at _some point_.

To which she replies: _and that just happened to be now_?

_Yes_ , he says to that, making a point of ignoring her twinkling eyes and amused smirk.

When she does finally get him standing outside, Sara wastes no time sticking his helmet over the top of his head with relish, and then stepping back to admire her handiwork.

He tries not to shift uncomfortably under her scrutiny, tries even harder not to blush as her eyes sweep up and down the length of his body.

“You know, you’d look even better in a leather jacket.”

Rip thinks she looks good enough for the both of them in hers. He says nothing of the sort though, sighs heavily and musters the best ‘put-upon’ expression that he can instead.

“Oh shut up,” she says, pulling down his visor, “you’re excited really.”

He’s really not. He’s kind of terrified. And she knows it.

He pulls his visor back up.

“Look I’ll ride us somewhere that’s a little quieter, and I’ll show you the basics, okay?”

Rip watches her ease onto the bike, looking right at home as she pulls down her own helmet and grabs hold of the handlebars. “Hop on, and hold tight.”

He situates himself behind her, tries to keep some distance between them as he gingerly holds onto her waist.

Sara laughs. “Seriously?”

She grabs hold of his arms, tugging him into her back and wrapping his hands around her torso more firmly.

“I’m a big girl, Rip. It’s fine. Just don’t go getting too handsy, no going south of the border. Not that I would hate it, but you’re terrified enough without me getting all distracted.”

He splutters, cheeks burning, grateful she can’t see him.

She doesn’t give him a chance to respond. Kicks up the stand, switches on the ignition and revs the engine. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

He most certainly doesn’t scream as they zoom off.

 

:::::

 

Once the initial terror settles, he quickly comes to the realisation that it’s not a bad way to travel.

There’s a certain kind of rush with the world flying past, the rumble of the engine under him and the warmth of wrapping himself around her. His front is pressed up against her back, his own thighs cradling hers as he tightens his hold.

The views are pretty spectacular too.

Since he moved to the U.S. several years ago, he never really had a chance to explore the country. Jonas had been really young, work had kept him busy, and it just hadn’t been high on his list of priorities. But now as the coastline comes into view, he feels the visceral, seductive pull of wanderlust, and has half a mind to tell Sara to keep going.

It’s a nice thought. Just a bike, a map, the two of them and the rest of the world out there, waiting.

They’ve been riding for an hour, but it doesn’t feel nearly so long.

And when she finally rolls them to a stop, and cuts the engine, he finds he doesn’t want to move.

“Rip?” she calls out softly, removing her helmet, “you still alive back there?”

Alive.

Now that’s the word, isn’t it?

Alive.

He thinks all this time he’d forgotten that he is.

“Yes,” he answers her after a long moment. “Yes, I am.”

 

:::::

 

The rest of the lesson isn’t too terrible.

Sara is a natural born teacher. He can see the patience, and the kindness, she must exude when she teaches her self-defence class. The genuine pleasure she gets from her students learning, and getting the hang of something she’s cultivated. Be it a particular defence position, attack combination, or in his case, how to shift gears on her bike.

He doesn’t make any huge strides, but then getting him to sit on the bike and turn the ignition key had been more than enough progress for him.

And he’s buzzing with it.

Buzzing with the feeling of being alive. And later he’ll tell himself it’s that, that makes him do it.

That heady feeling, combining potently with the summer ocean breeze, the romance of the setting sun and the magnificent view. A stunning horizon, and an even more stunning Sara Lance standing in front of him, smiling wide, carefree and full of a joy that he’s been starving for. It’s that, that has him reaching out to caress her cheek, watching mesmerised as the blush on her skin appears and disappears with the brush of his thumb; as her blue eyes widen, darker than usual in the sunset, and her lips part drawing his attention, pulling him closer to crossing over a line he can no longer ignore.

Forehead pressed to forehead, nose sliding against hers as he cradles her face, tilting her lips to his, he holds that moment for an infinite second, breathing in nothing but her, before she meets him half way and they finally succumb to what he thinks had been set in motion the first time he laid eyes on her. Messy blonde curls and an amused smirk, eyes twinkling with mischief, spelling nothing but trouble.

He kisses her for the first time then.

And he realises, he'd been wrong before.

_This,_ he knows now, _is what it feels like to be alive._

:::::

 

A high, always, without fail, is followed by the crash back down to Earth.

Gravity is a high-and-mighty bastard. And it loves getting in the last word.

The house is quiet, dark, empty when they get home.

The burn under his skin, the rush through his veins blends to form one continuous hum around him, where he can’t discern one sense from another.

All he knows is, that this?

_This is right_.

“Rip,” Sara says, the first word she’s said since. It’s nothing but a whisper. She stops in front of the stairs in the hallway, the lights are off, and it’s moonlight that streams in, casting odd shadows, tinging everything in shades of blue.

“Sara,” he says, taking a step forward, but then there’s a hand at his chest, firm. Neither pushing nor pulling, but it’s enough to pierce through his chest wall and squeeze around his heart.

“I just . . .” she takes in a deep breath, squeezing a little harder, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” he repeats.

He steps back, but then she’s grabbing hold of his hand, somehow finding it in the darkness as easy as that.

“No, look,” she starts, stops, takes another breath and tries again, “I just think we got caught up in the moment tonight. In the adrenaline rush, and it’s been a really long day-”

And it’s a sharp, stinging slap around his face.

And he’s awake. Wide awake.

“Right. Yes. I’m sorry. I read too much into the moment,” he pulls his hand from her grasp. The instinct to run fierce and overwhelming.

“Rip-”

“Please accept my apologies, Miss Lance. I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“Rip, that’s not what I’m-”

He doesn’t wait around to hear the rest of her sentence. Sidesteps past her to climb the stairs and heads for his bedroom.

Shutting the door firmly behind him, he sits at the end of his bed and doesn’t move.

Waiting for the night to swallow him whole.

It doesn’t.

 

:::::

 

“You’re being an idiot.”

“An idiot, am I now Mr Jackson? And what about this time?”

“Sara. She thinks you hate her.”

“Well tell Miss Lance she’s being absurd.”

“Why can’t you tell her?”

He opens and closes his mouth, and then changes the subject. “What was the emergency you called me for?”

They’re sitting around one of the outside tables of a coffee shop not two streets away from Jax’s workshop. The midday sun is scorching, and despite the shade under the umbrellas, Rip can still feel the sweat running down the middle of his back, his white t-shirt clinging in the heat.

“This _is_ the emergency,” Jax huffs. “Two of my best friends are complete idiots and are being dumbasses.”

“Dumbasses?” he repeats, and good god does that sound terrible in his accent, “how exactly are our arses dumb?”

Jax shakes his head, presses his hands together in a beseeching manner, and pleads, “just talk to her? Please?”

 

:::::

 

He fights with himself over it.

He wants to talk to her. Of course he does. At the heart of it, they’re friends. It’s a friendship he can’t even begin to describe in words, for he wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Wouldn’t be able to sufficiently explain just why it is so important to him.

He misses talking to her. That easy way their conversations would never start, never end, always starting off and ending somewhere in the middle. He misses her smiles.

He misses her.

And so he sits there, long after Jax has gone back to work, turns his phone over in his hands, fingers streaking greasy marks across his screen as he does, until he stops and types before he loses his nerve.

**I’m sorry, Sara. I obviously feel something you don’t**

**I misread the situation**

**And that’s not your fault**

**And I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was**

**It’s my own problem**

**And I’m sorry**

**Please forgive me.**

There’s no response. He stares at the screen, wills her to come online. But all that glares back at him is: _last seen today at 10.47_

**I miss you**

He stares at those three words and is filled with a blind panic. Why on Earth had he sent that? As if the rest of his emotional splurge of feelings hadn’t been bad enough? He sits there agonising over a message he can’t take back, wondering if there is in fact some way to retrieve messages from cyberspace before the recipient sees them, when his phone suddenly vibrates, flashing blue dot taunting him with all the words waiting to be said.

He swipes the screen.

**You’re an idiot**

Well that . . .  _that’s just . . ._

**I haven’t gone anywhere**

He breathes out. Like a pin in a balloon and all that pent-up anxiety and worry, stress and panic just flows out, carried away, far away, in the humid air.

**Can we talk? Please?**

**I’ll be home in twenty**

**Ok x**

He stares at that little cross, and it’s the silliest of things, but it’s all he sees.

 

:::::

 

He finds her waiting for him.

Sitting on the old crumbling brick wall outside their small front garden, sunglasses hooked onto the neckline of her t-shirt, flips flops on the ground below her dangling bare feet.

“Captain Hunter,” she says, a tentative, cautious smile on her lips.

“Sara,” he bandies back, and from the widening of her smile, it was the right choice to make.

She looks down at a wrist watch that isn’t there, “did you run here?”

“I may have.”

He pulls himself up onto the wall beside her and waits.

“Well?” she nudges his shoulder gently.

“Well, I figured this time I’d let you actually speak. Since I seemed to have a very difficult time letting you do that the last time.”

“Right,” she nods. “Okay. So, here’s the thing.”

She stops.

He waits.

“The thing?” he prompts.

“I was afraid.”

He frowns, and she shakes her head, continuing on, “just listen, please. I was afraid that you’d regret it. That you weren’t ready.” She picks at the fraying ends of her shorts, summoning up the courage to tell him the rest. “You didn’t fall out of love with your wife, Rip. You lost her, in the worst way imaginable, and that’s awful and God! I wish I could take that pain away for you, wish you’d never had to go through that, but at the same time, I wouldn’t have you in my life if you hadn’t.” She’s on a roll now, and it comes hurtling out, as the brake pedals jam in place, and she can’t stop. “I’m jealous as hell of her, because I’ll never know if I’d ever have been able to compete, if I’d have been enough, and that makes _me_ awful-”

“Sara, that doesn-”

“I love you,” she says. The words just fall out of her mouth, no hesitation, no qualification, she _just is_. And she isn’t holding back. “I’m _in love_ with you.”

She takes in a deep shuddering breath while he finds himself struggling to do the same.

“I want this, Rip. But I want you to be sure. I _need_ you to be sure.”

Her fingers are clenched into tight fists, her knuckles bone white, and he’s never seen her look more vulnerable than she does right now. _And he hears her_. She’s not looking for a love confession, he can sense now just wouldn’t be the time. She’d see it as a knee-jerk reaction to her words. What she needs from him is a reassurance, and he can give her that much at least.

He grabs hold of her hand, eases her fingers away from its grip and straightens them up. There are half-moon crescents imprinted into the palm of hand as he presses his own palm against hers, entwining their fingers. Lifting their hands, he presses a kiss to the back of hers and nods.

“Okay.”

She breathes out. “Okay.”

 

:::::

 

Temperatures soar over the next few weeks, figures reaching record highs, making it the hottest July yet. There’s an exhaustion and lethargy that’s settled in and it feels like the whole town has ground to a halt, melting in place.

When Jax suggests a trip down to the coast line, for some fun in the sun, he can’t help but think it sounds more like torture. No, he’s perfectly content to sit indoors, fan in one hand, bucket of ice in the other.

When it comes to household democracy though, he supposes he should have learnt by now, he was leader and sole member of a one-man party.

And so he goes. Sits in the back of the minivan Nate hires, sandwiched between Jax and Ray, trying and failing to stop sneaking glances at Sara. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, excitement pouring off of her, hair flying free outside the open window as she joins the rest of the gang singing along to the radio. Every now and again, she’ll call out directions, ignoring the map spread open across her thighs and in complete contradiction to the GPS stuck to the dashboard. And yet, somehow, against all odds, they manage to get themselves there.

The day passes in a humid haze of beach games (he refuses to play), surfing and swimming (which he categorically avoids), while he opts to sit there under the shade of the umbrella, drink in one hand, and book in the other.

His eyes most certainly _do not_ drift to Sara – happy, carefree and beautiful in the summer sun, dressed in beachwear that attracts appreciative glances from men, women alike – not that she does much herself to stay out of his sight either. She just seems to be there, every time he looks up. He knows she knows exactly what she’s doing, especially when she looks up at just the right moment, catching him in the act and smiling in that way that she does.

When Jax tells him with a look of half-annoyance, half-wonder, that he’s ‘made of stone’, he pretends to have no idea what he’s talking about.

He doesn’t know what’s holding him back. If he’d thought Sara’s confession would change things, he’d quickly realised how wrong an assumption that was. She’d been utterly fearless in telling him how she felt, but she’d also proven herself endlessly patient yet again, as well as remarkably perceptive.

Because at the time he may have felt just as fearless, ready to fly off that edge and fall into the unknown with her, but apparently Sara Lance knows him better than himself. Because something holds him back.

He’s come close. So many times since, to telling her how he feels, but the words have failed to form on his tongue. His brain and his mouth a discordant, uncoordinated mess. Just like now.

Day has turned into night, and the temperature drops just enough to be bearable. A happy by-product of being at the ocean-front. There’s even a little breeze and he thinks he could cry in relief. It feels amazing.

He spots her. Bathed in moonlight, camisole fluttering in the gentle breeze as the waves rush up to her bare feet and recede. Time and time again.

Sara doesn’t even look up as he stops beside her, his own feet bare, digging into the wet sand.

“They’re all packed up,” he says, “ready to go.”

She nods, her eyes not leaving the ocean, touched by silver moonlight and swallowed by the darkness of night.

“Not yet,” she says softly.

He drops down next to her, his knee brushing hers as he crosses his legs, joining her in her silence, and waits.

“She loved the ocean.”

“Laurel?”

She sighs. “I know it’s been years, but you know sometimes I miss her so much, it’s hard to breathe.”

“I know.”

And he does. He knows what it is she’s feeling.

She looks back at him, holding his gaze softly, and answers back, an echo of words spoken long ago.

“You always do.”

_Then_ , he’ll think later.

_It was then._

 

:::::

 

He slips off his wedding band that night.

Finds the old locket he has tucked away in his drawer, a picture of Jonas inside, and slides it onto the same chain.

He leaves it there.

A piece of his heart.

Takes a breath. In and out.

And for once, where he’d never dreamed it possible, there is no crippling pain.

No longer an open wound, bleeding freely. But nerveless scar tissue tattooed there on his soul.

 

:::::

 

The heat spell finally breaks with a well-timed thunderstorm a week later.

By well-timed, he means not timed at all.

He gets caught in the downpour on his way back from his visit to the precinct. His return to work is still a discussion in progress; they’ve been great at working with him, to his needs and at his pace, coming to a solution that will help ease him back into the force.

He’s yet to tell anyone.

He’d mentioned it once or twice, the idea of going back to work, but that’s all it had been then. An idea. A vague concept, that had once been completely outside the realms of possibility for him.

But then so many things had been,

Eating. Sleeping. Smiling. Laughing. Dreaming. Living. Breathing. _Loving._

Yet here he is.

Doing all of those things and not being wracked with guilt. For once thinking, believing, that maybe, _just maybe_ , he deserves those things too.

And it’s them that have made it possible.

His friends, _his family._

_Sara._

He finds her out in the rain.

Somehow it doesn’t surprise him.

Because of course she would be. Blonde hair turned shades darker, plastered to her face as she stares up at the sky, blinking and laughing into the downpour as her hands fly around her as she spins.

_Beautiful._

She’s beautiful.

She only stops when she spots him; the smile still bright on her lips, raindrops running down her face and her arms, and it must be written all over his face as her eyes find his and she swallows.

He walks up to her then, gazes locked in place as he closes the distance.

Hands reach up to cradle her cheeks, thumbs sliding against her wet skin, eyes roving over her face. A face that has burned behind closed eyelids for a long time before now.

Her fingers clutch at his shirt, and there’s a question there, doubt still shining from her eyes.

But there’s no doubt in his heart.

And so he puts it to rest. Once and for all.

“I love you,” he says.

And he doesn’t think she can hear the words in the rain, but she can read his lips just fine as he says it again.

And again, with the press of his lips against hers and the curve of his own smile.

And when she finally gets the message, her hands wind their way around him, pulling him closer as he presses her back, walking them into their home and out of the rain. They only stop to take a breath and laugh as they stumble over the threshold and into a pair of abandoned shoes that he’s sure he must have grumbled about three or four times before. Sara doesn’t let go long enough to see where he kicks them, pulling him back down and not letting go.

She doesn’t let go as she pulls him up the stairs.

Doesn’t let go as she tugs him into a bedroom, his bedroom, pushing him down onto his bed and straddling his waist, staining the bedsheets with rain.

She only lets go long enough to ask, words a whisper, tainted with a vulnerability that presses heavy against his chest, words that remind him of weeks ago where they stood upon this very same precipice, stepping back and resisting gravity.

He should have known they could only fight it so long.

“Are you sure?”

He lifts a hand, curling the wet strands that frame her face away, before grabbing hold of her left hand in his and entwining their fingers. He lifts it gently to his lips and kisses the back of her hand, watching as her eyes follow and she finally sees it, _feels it_.

The glint of gold gone, and the start of something new.

“I’m sure.”

 

:::::

 

Rip wakes to late afternoon sun streaming through his curtains, Sara Lance dressed in nothing but one of his shirts, sitting cross-legged beside him, guitar – _his_ guitar – in hand, with an expression that needs no words to decipher.

She bites down on her lower lip, a flash of fingers, lips, teeth, tangled limbs and sighs running through his mind, and she can read it well enough if the grin is anything to go by.

He sighs.

Pulls himself to sit, and gently grasps the instrument from her, before turning it in his hands, fretboard in one, elbow resting against the body as he gently strums with the other.

It’s been years.

And it’s obvious. It’s out of tune and sounds it.

Sara laughs.

He shakes his head at her, before working his hands around the tuning keys, twisting them around until it’s just right. Sara settles back, jamming her elbow into the pillow, head resting on an open palm, and laughter soon turns into a soft smile as he starts playing.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” she asks again.

“Sing,” he answers this time.

“Liar,” she bats back, with not a moment of hesitation.

He chuckles, changes his answer.

“Swim.”

“I can teach you,” she offers once more.

He breathes out.

“I’d like that.”

 

:::::

 

The rest of the gang respond to the news in similar, aggravating fashion.

There’s a whole lot of knowing grins, and suggestive smirks, self-congratulatory shouts of “I knew it!” flying around, as well as outstretched hands and the exchanging of currency . . .

Hang on. _Wait . . ._

“You lot had a pool going?”

He sounds surprised, but he’s not even sure why.

Sara just laughs, throws him a grin from behind her beer bottle as she steps across the bench to sit at the table. They’ve chosen to sit outside, the bar having moved the open mike night rather literally out into the open, and onto the roof top.

It’s a rather spectacular view from up here. It’s a warm evening too, still light out, but the sky changing hues with approaching dusk adds to the mood and the gentle buzz humming around as summer’s end draws near.

It’ll be a year soon, he realises. A year since Sara Lance came stumbling into his kitchen in search of food, batting not an eyelid at his frying pan, now familiar smirk on her face.

He could never have imagined himself here.

Now he can’t imagine anything else.

Ray offers him a hug and a very genuine “congratulations” as he settles down beside him. “I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thank you, Ray,” Rip nods in appreciation, always able to depend on the man not to give into childish mockery. Unlike the others.

“Soo,” Amaya starts up then, cautiously testing the waters, “we have some news of our own . . .”

Her gaze flickers over to Nate sitting beside her, hands clasped together, who’s looking back at her with a dopey grin.

“Oh my god! You’re getting married!” Jax shouts out.

“No!” Sara scoffs. “Do you see a ring on her finger? No. No, _she’s pregnant_.”

“I’m not _pregnant,_ ” Amaya lowers her tone at the last word, a few curious glances being thrown their way.

“We’re moving in together,” Nate jumps in, preventing any further wayward guesses.

“Oh,” Sara says, with as much disappointment as Jax says, “ _is that it_?”

At the pair’s disgruntled expression, Ray tries to smooth it over. “Well you both do already, kinda, live together . . .”

“You guys sure know how to spoil a party,” Nate grumbles.

“Congratulations,” Rip nods, holding his bottle out.

Nate gratefully clinks his against it, and the rest of them follow suit.

He hears Amaya whisper to Sara, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

Sara shrugs back, wraps her friend in a hug but doesn’t hear her response.

He doesn’t understand the moment until it dawns on him. She looks up at him then, eyes meeting across the table.

It’ll be just the two of them.

He’s not sure they’ll be able to afford the place on their own, even when he does return to work full-time. All he knows is that he loves that house, and though they have a lot to talk about and numbers to crunch, wherever they end up, he knows it’ll be together. Because home is wherever she is, and from the smile on her face, he knows she thinks the same.

“Rip Hunter?”

His head jerks up, the slight screech from the feedback ringing in his ears and he wonders if he heard right.

“Is there a Rip Hunter here? Now ain’t that a stage name! You’re up next buddy!”

No. No that was definitely his name.

He looks around desperately on the slim-to-zero chance that the man means someone else entirely.

And . . . _no._

At the grinning faces around him, and Sara’s expression, he knows just who’s behind this.

“ _No_.”

“Oh come on!”

“No. Oh look. I don’t even have my guitar. So, _no_.”

“You mean this?” Out of nowhere Jax pulls it out and the colour drains from his face.

“Heard you’ve been holding out on us dude,” Nate grins.

Looking up at Sara’s face, he doesn’t have to look far to find the culprit. But he can’t even find it in himself to be mad, not when she’s grinning guiltily back at him like that.

“Bollocks,” he says, standing up before taking a hefty swallow of his drink, grabbing his guitar from the duplicitous grasp of his friend, and making his way over to the small stage, whoops and cheers following behind him.

He hasn’t sung in front of groups of people in a heck of a long time. Up until recently, he hasn’t sung at all.

Only the once, for Sara.

And that? That had been surprisingly easy.

Finding enjoyment once more in something he’d forgotten how to love.

And so he takes a breath, and does it again.

Finds her eyes in the crowd, focuses on the brilliant blue, on the curve of her smile and the dusting of freckles he’s still kissing his way through, and sings.

For her.

And for himself.

She’ll later say it wasn’t about singing.

It was about _life, and living._

_Which,_ he thinks _, had been the point all along._

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the end folks. I hope you've enjoyed this so far, just the epilogue to go . . .


	5. epilogue

 

_September_

“What’s the catch?”

“There is none,” he says, turning away to take off his jacket and hang it on the back of the chair.

See, now, if he hadn’t done that? She may have just believed him.

Rip is a terrible liar.

Brilliant at keeping things hidden when saying nothing at all. But terrible when forced to open his mouth and actually form words.

“So, what you’re saying,” she approaches him, one slow step at a time, and he visibly gulps, “is that the Prof will let us stay here for a third less of the rent, and he wants _nothing_ in return?”

He lifts a hand to the back of his head and scratches. “Well . . . _not nothing._ ”

She’s not sure she’s going to like this, but then Rip is blushing pink and suddenly she’s more intrigued than wary.

He sighs.

“He wants to _jam_.”

“Jam?”

“Get together. Play music. Something about reliving his youth. And then wants to tag along to our evenings out and has invited Mr Rory along. They apparently struck up a friendship last Christmas.”

It takes a second to process, a longer second not to laugh, and then she just about manages to pull a straight face as she shrugs and says, “eh, that’s not so bad.”

He splutters, “you would say that! You’re not being forced to aid and abet a man’s mid-life crisis.”

“Mid-life? That’s a bit generous.”

“Not the point.”

“True. The point is: _can I come and watch_?”

_October_

“Matching costumes.”

“No.”

“Hear me out Rip-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

“Fine.”

She pouts at him for the rest of the day.

All the way up until the party when she finally finds him, ghostly white, covered in flour, leaning up against the kitchen counter, grin on his face.

No one else gets it.

But she does.

If the way she kisses him then is anything to go by.

“Okay, but next year . . . _matching costumes_ . . .”

_November_

She catches him trying to sneak back into the coffee shop and ask the barista to re-make his order.

The woman just looks back at him, a mixture of confusion and irritation playing across her pretty face. It’s not surprising given the building queue winding its way almost out of the front door. She clearly doesn’t have time to be dealing with crazy, conspiracy theorist nut-jobs.

And neither does Sara.

(Even if he is a monster of her own creation.)

She grabs hold of his arm, and tugs him away. “Nice try.”

“Sara, this is ridiculous.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s just coffee.”

“It is not _just_ coffee. Coffee does not taste this good.”

The cat-that-caught-the-canary grin on her face instantly turns his expression suspicious. “ _Miss Lance_?”

“I’ll tell you what’s in it, _if_. . . if you admit coffee is better than tea.”

He takes a sip of his drink, bends downs, lips a hairbreadth of a distance away from hers, and whispers back in a traitorous breath.

“ _Never_.”

_December_

 

Sara snuggles into his side. The postprandial laze is setting in, and he thinks he can fall asleep right here on this sofa and not move for the rest of the week.

He lifts his arm, curls it around her shoulders and pulls her in tighter.

There’s a sleepy smile on her face, half hidden in the wool of his ridiculous reindeer Christmas jumper. The novelty headband sitting on her head slipping slightly, the attached sprig of mistletoe poking against the underside of his chin. When she’d worn it first thing this morning, and he’d given her _the_ look, she’d retorted with a “what? I didn’t get to wear this last year, so I’m gonna get as much out of this thing as I possibly can!” and had then proceeded to do just that.

“My parents loved you, by the way,” she murmurs.

Those surprising words are enough to wake him up. He’d reached out to the Lances and invited them to Christmas dinner, knowing despite Sara’s reassurances she had been feeling guilty and anxious at spending this year without them. And so, he’d made the suggestion, and if Sara’s response had been anything to go by, it had been the best idea he’d ever had.

They’d been pleasant enough to him: Mrs Lance’s questions polite but pointed, Mr Lance’s handshake a little firmer than necessary but given their shared profession, the conversation soon flowed. It hadn’t been terrible, but he thinks Sara may be exaggerating just a touch.

“Really?” he asks, the hopeful tone unmistakable.

She tilts her head back then, kisses the underside of his chin, and answers. “Really.”

 

_January_

 

“Are you trying to kill me faster?”

She looks down at the bowl of soup in his outstretched hands, as if trying to get it as far away from him as possible, as if it actually were poison, and tries not to give into the flare of irritation and indignation.

“It’s your recipe!”

“No,” he shakes his head, coughing violently, eyes watering. “No, it most certainly isn’t.”

“I thought spice was good for clearing out the sinuses.”

“If you want to burn them open, sure.”

She narrows her eyes and grabs hold of the bowl, determined to prove him wrong as she lifts the spoon to her mouth-

“I uh wouldn’t do that, if I were you . . .”

Oh it burns! Her eyes water instantly as she starts spluttering, and runs to the kitchen in search of water.

She hears the faint, “thanks anyway, love,” behind her, and resolves to leave all the cooking to him from now on.

Flu or no flu.

 

_February_

“Is it true, the Irish have a tradition where a woman can propose on a leap day?”

He looks up from his newspaper, the random question startling only for the choice of subject. It isn’t even a leap year, he thinks, bemused.

“I believe so. Though I think times have changed enough I hope, that a woman should be able to any day of the year.”

She hums, “hmm. Except I think most guys would probably hate the idea.”

“As would a lot of women.”

“Would you?” she asks then, and he freezes on the spot. His heart a loud thump-thump-thump rushing in his ears.

He hasn’t even thought about marriage. After Miranda, never thought he’d find someone he could feel as much for, let alone contemplate the idea of getting married again.

But he thinks about it. Tries to imagine it, and thinks that although maybe _not now_ , and not for some time, but the idea surprisingly doesn’t want to make him run and hide.

He clears his throat. “Is that a proposal, Miss Lance?”

She scoffs. “Oh believe me, you’ll know it when I propose.”

_When._

She’d said _when_.

He shakes his head, and answers, “No. No I wouldn’t hate it.”

 

_March_

When she signs up to do a training session at the precinct she makes it a point _not_ to tell him.

He’s been back at work for just over a month now, not quite full-time yet, but enough to ease him back in. Naturally, they don’t slot him back into his old chain of command, it’s not the type of responsibility he can deal with yet.

So, when she walks into the training room and spots him there in his grey t-shirt and gym shorts, she ignores his wide eyes and the frequent, meaningful glances he shoots in her direction throughout the session. Most of them any variation along the lines of ‘ _what the hell, Sara_?’

She doesn’t take it easy on them.

She grew up among cops; is used to the humour, the banter and bro-dynamics.

She’s also used to handsome men, full of shit, who think too much of themselves, thinking they can take her on, and she gains an inordinate amount of pleasure in putting them in their place.

When it’s Rip’s turn on the mats, she thinks he’s still too stunned to put up much of a fight. She has him pinned to the floor in less than fifteen seconds flat.

She makes it up to him though.

At the end of the session, when one of his colleagues saunters up to her, and asks her out for dinner in a manner that suggests he’s never been turned down and he likes his chances, she smiles politely and declines. Ignores the man’s protest, and walks over to Rip on her way out, plants a kiss firm on his lips and says loud enough for them all, “I’ll see you at home, babe.”

And walks out to stunned silence.

 

_April_

In hindsight, they probably should have realised sooner.

When Ray and Kendra first announce their engagement, it’s to laughs all around.

They’ve not even been dating that long.

_“Ha! Good one!”_

_“Nice try, not falling for that!”_

_“Ah come on man, that’s a shit April fool’s prank.”_

“It’s not a prank,” Ray huffs. “ _It’s not_.”

And when they each get sent a hundred wedding invites on golden gilded paper through the post a week later, and have to eat large slices of humble pie, they realise it was perhaps the best April Fool’s prank of them all.

 

_May_

 

“I mean apart from nearly drowning, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Rip looks back at her, huddled in towels, looking rather pale and miserable.

“Hey look,” she says, nudging his feet, “I did save you, you weren’t in any real danger.”

Apart from choking on a lungful of water and needing the kiss-of-life, of course.

He cracks a smile, and the panic and guilt recede, enough to breathe a little easier.

“My hero,” he says.

 

_June_

He finds her on the shoreline.

Lying on the sand, gazing up at the stars.

She’s been quiet most of the day. And he knows why. Knows today of all days, she’s missing Laurel the most.

It’s why he organised this trip. Why he got the whole gang to come along, and they didn’t need much convincing, not when they understood.

He wonders now, if it had been the wrong thing to do.

The apology is there on his lips as he lies down beside her, but she brushes them aside before he has a chance to utter them with a gentle “thank you,” that almost disappears with the water lapping at their toes.

She turns to look at him then. Eyes shining with tears and starlight.

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple, before turning back to the stars, entwined hands drawing shapes into the night sky.

 

_July_

 

“I don’t get it,” he says first thing in the morning.

“You wouldn’t,” she says, “you’re British.”

And as the 4th July festivities come to a close with family and friends together in the warm summer night, bellies full of food and laughter, and fireworks booming around them, Rip changes his mind.

“Ok, so maybe, it’s not so bad.”

She grins. “They have a word for you, you know?”

“Yes, and what would that be?”

“ _Turncoat_.”

 

_August_

Planning a wedding and actually getting married in four months is pretty impressive.

The whole day goes seamlessly, and Rip couldn’t be happier for them both.

Ray is beaming inside out, and Kendra makes for a stunning bride.

The woman sitting in front of him isn’t so bad either.

Sara had grumbled about the dress for the past five weeks, but he thinks his jaw dropping to the floor and hanging there when she first emerged from the bathroom in the morning, went some way in alleviating her discomfort.

She sits there, sipping on her champagne, as he approaches her, hand outstretched.

She curls her lips into a small smile, and shakes her head, “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Neither am I,” he says with a grin. “We’ll just have to muddle our way through somehow.”

She slips her hand into his, and stands. “Together.”

“Together.”

 

_September_

**You know what we should get?**

**What?**

**A dog**

**No**

**Rip**

**No**

<https://iheartdogs.com/>

**Rip?**

**….**

**Rip?**

_Last seen today at 16.04_

 

 

 

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And DONE. If you made it this far, THANK YOU. I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Time Canary week has been a blast and I have loved reading everyone's work and squealing over the beautiful artwork that's been posted over on tumblr. Thanks guys for making this as fun as it has been <3


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